


Witch Hazel

by Wise_Himmel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Female Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-01-07 03:24:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 69,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18402122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wise_Himmel/pseuds/Wise_Himmel
Summary: Hazel Potter, the Girl Who Lived, is sorted into Slytherin. No one expected it, least of all Severus Snape.





	1. Chapter 1

The girl was just like Lily. 

He cursed and threw the bottle of firewhisky at the wall. 

He had been prepared to hate the girl, the daughter of Potter. He had been ready to hate a little girl with a square face and messy black hair. For years he had pictured her thus, allowing the rage to roil in him whenever he thought of her. He was not prepared for Lily in miniature. He was not ready for a girl with a friendly face and gentle waves of red hair. And he could not stand to see hazel eyes peering out at him from Lily’s face. 

She was supposed to be Potter all over. She was supposed to be arrogant, a bully, cruel, hateful, all these things and more. She was supposed to be someone he could hate. She was not supposed to be Lily all over again. How could he be cruel to her when she so resembled his only real friend, the friend he had killed? 

And worse, she had been sorted into Slytherin. There was no way he could avoid the girl. She was his responsibility. He was the one she was supposed to come to, confide in. And she would need to—the rumors that she was a dark witch were no doubt already swirling about the school. If only she were a Gryffindor. Then she would not be suspected. Then she would not be hated. Then he would not have to deal with her. If only she were McGonagall’s problem, and not his. 

He balled his hands into fists, ready to strike; he wanted to hit something, to break something. Fate was toying with him, making the girl resemble her mother. And fate was winning; he was weak, letting one girl do this to him. He hated everything, including himself. He struck the stone wall as hard as he could. Pain flared in his hand and his knuckles bled. 

His chest heaved as he struggled to control his breathing, to exert some measure of control over his emotions. This outburst had to end. He was no fool who wore his heart on his sleeve—he was a Death Eater, a spy, a master Occlumens. He could do this. He could calm down and comport himself with dignity. 

A knock sounded on his door. He stalked across the room, fighting to regain control of himself. He opened the door to find Dumbledore standing there, serene as ever. 

“My dear boy,” he began. Severus was tempted to slam the door in his face, but instead bade him entry. 

Blue eyes flickered across the room, taking in everything from the papers strewn across the floor to the shattered glass on the ground. The room was in utter disarray, having suffered from Severus’s angry attentions for the last ten minutes. It was a sickness with him; in his anger, he could not help but destroy. His carefully constructed balance was gone; the Lily look-alike had destroyed it. 

Dumbledore placed a wizened hand on his shoulder. Severus flinched away. “Whatever you have to say, old man, I don’t care,” he said. 

“Severus,” Dumbledore said. “I—” 

“Don’t,” he said. 

“I realize this is difficult for you,” he said. 

“Difficult? She looks like Lily! She was supposed to look like Potter!” 

Dumbledore gave him a piercing look. “She did not choose her appearance to torment you, Severus.” 

He laughed a bitter laugh. “But that doesn’t change things, does it?” 

“No,” Dumbledore said. “I suppose it does not. You must endeavor to see the girl for herself, my boy, not her mother, nor her father. You will only make yourself miserable if you continue down this path.” 

“It’s too late,” Severus said. “I’ve already gone down it. How am I supposed to make her hate me? How am I supposed to treat her like I’m a Death Eater?” 

Dumbledore sat down in a high-backed arm chair, crossing his legs. “You do not. You treat her as you would any student.” 

“And how do I do that when I’ve sworn to protect her?” 

“You protect her from afar.” 

Severus glanced towards the mantle of his fireplace. There sat a picture of him and Lily, charmed so only he could see it. Dumbledore had once asked if he was ashamed of their friendship, since he went to such lengths to hide it. He was not ashamed of Lily. He was ashamed of how he had destroyed what they had. Friendship was a precious thing, and he had been a fool to throw it away for a lifetime of servitude. He considered the picture for a moment, thinking of what Lily would want him to do. 

“You cannot afford to confuse the child for her mother,” Dumbledore said. “She is an eleven-year-old girl, not a confidant to burden with knowledge of your sins.” 

“I know that,” he snapped. “I was hardly going to confess my secrets to a foolish school girl, no matter what she looks like.” 

Dumbledore looked at him, his eyes twinkling. He felt a prickling sensation in his mind. Dumbledore was trying to use legilimency. Severus snorted. The meddlesome old man already knew all his secrets. There was nothing left to discover, besides the depths of his pain. But a vicious feeling overcame him. He shut his friend and mentor out, throwing him forcefully from his mind, not caring how well-intentioned the intrusion was. He cursed Dumbledore’s near pathological need to have an almost omniscient level of knowledge. 

Severus stood from him chair, straightening his frock coat. With as much coldness as he could muster, he said, “If that was all, Headmaster, I bid you goodnight.” 

With still twinkling eyes, Dumbledore rose from his chair and strode out the door. 

Severus swore and left his chambers behind the Headmaster. He had a speech to give. 

*** 

They walked through the dungeon corridor, footsteps and voices echoing against the stone walls. The torches gave off an eerie glow. Pansy and Draco drew closer together. She wished Ron had been sorted into Slytherin with her, so she would have someone to share this new experience with. But being alone was nothing new for her, so it didn’t bother her much. 

The prefect, Gemma Farley, came to a stop in front of a bare stretch of stone wall. It was dark and the torches behind them cast shadows on the wall. “Anguis,” she said. And then the wall faded away to reveal a passage, at the end of which was a cozy looking room cast in spectral blue-green light. 

“Amazing,” Theodore Nott said, more to himself than anyone else. “We’re under the lake.” 

“Of course we are, you idiot,” Draco snapped. “Anyone who has opened Hogwarts, A History knows that.” 

The weedy looking boy flushed red and muttered something under his breath. 

Draco moved to sit on a comfortable looking leather sofa. 

“Stay standing,” Gemma snapped. “Professor Snape wants to speak with all of you.” 

Draco scowled and stood up straighter. 

Gemma stood perfectly still. Hazel tried to mimic her dignified manner but found herself shifting from foot to foot and sharing glances with Theodore. She hated being kept waiting—it was a favorite tactic of Uncle Vernon, making her suffer from anticipation of her punishment instead of simply getting it over with. Hazel could deal with most things in the here and now but struggled with the abstract _something_ hanging over her head. She could only hope her Head of House was not of a similar disposition as Uncle Vernon. 

Five minutes later, Professor Snape walked through the common room door. Hazel thought he was even more off-putting up close—his hair was clearly in need of a good wash, his nose was hooked and crooked, and his skin sallow. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, he was an imposing figure, despite being on the shorter side of average. For a brief moment, their eyes met. Hazel was surprised when he was the first to look away. 

“First years,” he said, his voice deep and nasally. “Welcome to Slytherin House. You have been sorted here because you are ambitious, cunning, and resourceful. In Slytherin, we look after our own because we cannot expect anyone else to.” His dark eyes flicked across the row of students, resting only briefly on Hazel. “I will not hear of bullying within this house. Any breach of this expectation will be punished…severely. If you take issue with a housemate, you will bring your concerns to me. But elsewhere, outside my office and this common room, you will present a united front.” 

Hazel glanced at Malfoy. He had already broken the rules. No bullying. He had been horrid to Ron, mocking him for his poverty and insulting his family. Hazel had no doubt the blond boy disliked her now that she had refused his overtures of friendship, if what he offered could even be called that. Enmity had displaced any chance for amicable relations between them. But Hazel was not sorry—she was not going to make friends with the wizard version of Dudley. As much as she wanted friends, she would not demean herself to have them. 

“Do you understand the rules?” Professor Snape asked, looking at each first year in turn. Everyone but Malfoy nodded in assent. Instead, he turned to Hazel and smirked. 

“Miss Farley, if you could escort your charges to their room,” Professor Snape said, before sweeping out the door. 

“Yes sir,” the prefect said, though Professor Snape gave no sign he heard her. 

Hazel followed Gemma down a set of stairs to a bedroom with five beds in place. She looked around to her roommates: Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bullstrode, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis. 

Pansy sneered at her as she pushed past her, taking the bed furthest from the door. She started unpacking a lurid pink trunk into a dresser at the foot of her bed. Hazel had never realized that one person could have so many clothes; surely the trunk was somehow magically expanded to accommodate so much stuff. One look around told her that Tracey was no different—she was neatly folding her wide selection of lacey robes too. Hazel wondered if she ought to have gotten something pretty to wear on the weekends; all she had to wear besides her school robes were faded old dresses Petunia had found in a charity bin. 

Millicent looked dully around before flopping down on the nearest bed. It occurred to Hazel that Millicent was not a pretty girl, nor did she seem particularly bright. Her jaw was wide and jutting and she resembled a hag Hazel had seen in one of her books. Chiding herself for the shallow thoughts, Hazel decided to reserve judgment until she actually heard the bigger girl speak. 

As Hazel chose her bed, Daphne offered her a small smile. She was already unpacking too but didn’t have as many personal items as the other girls, so she was already almost finished. Hazel decided she would unpack her trunk tomorrow morning—she was quite tired. 

Her heart leapt as she sat down on the bed. The mattress wasn’t lumpy and was bigger than her entire cupboard. Pansy was loudly lamenting having to share a room with four other people, but Hazel didn’t care. For the first time in her life, she had an actual bed, not a dirty mattress stuffed into a cupboard. She might have minded having to share if there was no privacy, but there were thick curtains draped around the bed’s canopy. Any time she wished to be left alone, she could simply draw them shut. It was much more than she had dared to hope for. 

Daphne smiled at Hazel again. “I can’t believe I’m actually here—I’ve looked forward to coming here my entire life.” 

Hazel looked to the floor. She wasn’t about to admit that she hadn’t known magic existed until a month ago—they would think she was daft. She had the distinct feeling that being raised by Muggles was not something she should advertise after listening to Malfoy’s words about Muggles at dinner. 

“I’ve been looking forward to it too,” Hazel said. That wasn’t exactly a lie—she had been looking forward to coming to Hogwarts, to at last escaping the Dursleys, to being able to make friends. 

Hazel changed into her pajamas as the other girls wrote to their parents, informing them of their sorting. Hazel felt a small pang in her stomach, wishing she had someone to share the news with. Though she was accustomed to being an orphan, she still yearned for family, and failing that, just someone who cared. She was used to having only herself, but that didn’t make it any more enjoyable. She still carried the emptiness and loneliness around with her every day, but she hoped that would soon change. Maybe now that she was at Hogwarts, she would have friends at last.


	2. Chapter 2

Whispers followed Hazel wherever she went. 

“Dark witch.” 

“Slytherin.” 

“The Girl Who Lived.” 

Hazel didn’t know what the fuss was all about. She had survived a madman’s murderous act as a baby, likely through no prowess of her own. No one knew how she had survived, and Hagrid’s details on that night had been scant. And as for her being a Slytherin, she had tried to protest—the Sorting Hat simply wouldn’t hear it. She was who she was, and accepted that, but she wished she had been put in Gryffindor with her new friend Ron. 

She was still having difficulties finding her way to classes, struggling with all the corridors and the hundred and forty-two staircases. She supposed that at least she wasn’t like the poor Longbottom boy, who couldn’t remember the trick steps and was knocked to the ground whenever a staircase decided to move. Even though she fared better than many other first years, she still got lost with some frequency. McGonagall had been most displeased when she had come to class late after getting lost and trapped in an empty classroom by Peeves, and had taken ten points from Slytherin, to her housemates’ consternation. 

And, of course, there were the classes themselves. Magic was much more difficult than Hagrid had made it appear. Things didn’t just happen because you waved your wand and said a few words—and if they did, it was often something bad. 

That said, Hazel did enjoy her classes. Flitwick had nearly toppled over when he saw her. She had a feeling she was going to enjoy learning charms with the happy little wizard. Transfiguration, of course, was terribly tricky, but the thought of turning one thing into another was a fascinating one. She didn’t much care for History of Magic, which was boring, or Defense Against the Dark Arts, which was a bit of a joke, being taught by the stuttering Professor Quirrell who was scared of his own shadow. 

Hazel was pleased to find she wasn’t behind. She had managed a wand-lighting charm before Malfoy, and he had been bragging about his private tutors back home. She had found out there were lots of people from Muggle families who knew just as little as her and had been just as surprised to find out they were magical, though none in Slytherin. She still hadn’t revealed her Muggle background to anyone but Ron. 

She was pleased to encounter Ron just before their Potions lesson. It was the only class she shared with the Gryffindors, and she had yet to make friends with any of her housemates, mostly because Malfoy bullied anyone who seemed too friendly with her. It was a tactic she was used to, as she had experienced it all through primary school with Dudley as the bully. She thought that Theo was interested in being her friend, as he often shared sympathetic looks with her, but his sense of self-preservation must have outweighed that desire. 

”How’ve you been, Ron?” Hazel said, beaming at him. 

Ron looked at her, a bit wide-eyed. “Er…good.” 

Hazel cocked her head. This wasn’t the effusive boy she had talked to on the train. She watched him as he turned around, back to the Irish boy and tall black boy he had arrived with. 

”Ron?” she said. 

The Irish boy, Seamus, she thought his name was, turned to her, a nasty sneer on his face. “He doesn’t need to associate with dark witches like you, you sneaky Slytherin.” 

“I’m not a dark witch,” she said. “I’m just a student, like you.” 

“Then how did you defeat You-Know-Who?” 

“I don’t know.” 

The nasty sneer grew. “I think you’re a dark witch, Potter, and that’s how you defeated him. You’re in Slytherin, so you’ll go bad too. Won’t she, Ron?” 

“Er…I don’t think…” Ron said. 

“So you’d rather be friends with the sneaky snake?” 

“I didn’t say that!” he protested. 

Hazel’s heart sank. Ron didn’t want to be her friend after all. She hung her head. There was a lot of things you could force, but friendship wasn’t one of them. 

At that moment, the door to the classroom opened. “In,” Professor Snape bit. Hazel walked in to the classroom, her face still burning with shame. 

She sat down at the table nearest the front of the classroom. A Gryffindor with bushy hair sat down beside her, smiling a buck-toothed smile. Offering her hand, the girl said, “I’m Hermione Granger.” 

Hermione Granger. She had heard about her already, of course. The Gryffindor know-it-all. That was what the others called her. She was something of an outcast—the other Gryffindors thought her too brainy and bossy, from what she had heard. But Hazel was an outcast too—the other Slytherin first years were too afraid of Malfoy and his goons to befriend her, and the rest of the first years thought her a dark witch in the making. 

So Hazel shook Hermione’s hand. They could be outcasts together. 

And then the lesson began. Professor Snape, like Professor Flitwick, started the class by taking attendance. And like Flitwick, he paused on her name. His cold black eyes turned to her and lingered there. For a moment it seemed he was going to say something, but then he read the next name on the list. 

After he called roll, he stalked around the classroom in silence. The class watched him, wide-eyed in the silence. At last he began to speak. 

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquid that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.” 

Hermione edged forward in her seat. 

“Potter,” Snape said, his voice soft. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” 

Hermione’s hand shot into the hair. She waved it around for a bit. It was distracting, and Hazel needed to think. She knew the answer—it was in the introduction of the textbook, which she had read the night before while everyone else was playing Exploding Snap (which no one had invited her to play). 

“The Draught of Living Death, sir,” she whispered. 

Something like approval flashed through the man’s dark eyes. 

“And where would you find a bezoar?” 

Hermione’s hand was so high in the air, she had left her seat. 

“The stomach of a goat.” 

“And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?” 

“They’re the same thing. Aconite.” 

Snape turned around. Hermione sank back down into her seat. 

“Show-off,” Seamus whispered. 

“A point from Gryffindor,” Snape snapped, flicking his wand. Seamus flinched, but all Snape had done was make instructions appear on the board. 

Snape split them into pairs according to the table they sat at. Hazel really wanted to work with Ron, to get him away from Seamus so they could talk, really talk, but that was an impossibility. Once Snape spoke, his word was law, so Hermione was her partner. 

He set them a simple potion to cure boils. He stalked around the class room, his long robes swirling around him. He criticized everyone except for Hermione and Hazel. Ron and Seamus didn’t crush their snake fangs into a fine enough powder. Malfoy had stewed his horned slugs for too long, causing an acrid smoke to rise into the air. Snape made any criticism he could, small and large. But it was Neville and the tall black boy, Dean, who drew the worst of his ire. 

Poor Neville had managed to melt his cauldron into nothing but a hot, twisted piece of unrecognizable metal, causing their potion to spill across the floor. After discovering it had burned holes in Dean’s shoes, most of the class decided to stand on their stools to avoid becoming the potion’s next victim. One look at Neville, who was covered in terrible red boils, told them that coming into contact with the potion was a less than desirable fate. 

”Idiot boy! I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire? Take him to the hospital wing, Finnegan,” Snape said. “Weasley, why didn’t you stop them from adding the quills? Thought it’d make your inept attempt look better, did you? That’s a point you’ve lost for Gryffindor.” 

Ron’s face turned a startling shade of red, but he said nothing. Hazel thought it was rather unfair of Snape to take points from Ron, but said nothing, feeling satisfied that the boy had gotten his comeuppance for denying their friendship. Hermione glared at Ron for his loss of points. 

Snape dismissed Hermione and Hazel early, after they finished their near perfect potion. Considering she and Hermione had both been raised by Muggles, Hazel was pleased with their first attempt. Snape had not praised them, but neither had he criticized them, which was more than anyone else could say. 

Later that day, Hazel met Hermione in the library, newspaper in hand. An article had caught her eye when she saw an older Slytherin reading the paper. Someone had broken into Gringotts, on her birthday. It could have happened while she was there with Hagrid! The article said that the vault had been emptied earlier that day—it very well could have been the one Hagrid had emptied. The thought that she could have been wrapped up in something as cool as a break-in, however tangentially, excited her. 

Hazel, delighted to have a friend, told Hermione about their trip to Gringotts. 

“I don’t know, Hazel,” she said. “I imagine lots of people accessed their vaults that day.” 

“But it says it was emptied, not accessed. How many people empty their vaults completely?” 

Hermione chewed on her lip. “I suppose you have a point.” 

“I wonder what was in that package. It was just a little grubby thing, but Hagrid said it was important Hogwarts business.” 

“It could be anything!” Hermione said. 

“Well,” Hazel said. “That’s half the fun in trying to figure out what it is.” 

*HP* 

Hazel had spent hours with Hermione wandering the grounds that day. She smiled at the thought of her new friend. It was a fantastic feeling, having someone to share things with, even it was something as mundane as retelling the events of the day’s classes. Hermione, she found, was all too eager to recount her successes in class and to review the materials with her. Being Hermione’s friend, she knew, would mean many hours spent in the library. But Hazel didn’t mind—she could do with learning all she could about the Wizarding World, if she wanted to fit in within Slytherin. 

She was pleased to find they would have flying lessons with the Gryffindors, meaning she would see Hermione again. She met Hermione on Thursday morning in the Great Hall and they made their way to the lawn where flying lessons would take place. 

“Ready to make a fool of yourself, Potter?” Malfoy drawled, stopping them just outside the front door of the castle. “And your mudblood friend will too, I bet—this isn’t something you can learn out of a book.” Then Malfoy stuck his teeth out of his mouth and raised his hand enthusiastically into the air, doing a cruel but rather accurate impression of Hermione. 

Hazel drew her wand, despite not knowing any hexes, though Malfoy didn’t know that. The blond boy eyed her wand warily, before saying, “Put that thing away, Potter—it isn’t as if you know how to use it.” 

Sparks flew out of the end of her wand, causing Malfoy to draw back. 

“Try me, Malfoy,” she said. 

He scurried off. 

Hazel and Hermione walked down the sloping lawns towards the Forbidden Forrest. There was a clearing on its outer edges, where the flying lessons would take place. It was a beautiful day, with a gentle breeze blowing. The sun was high overhead, shining brightly, but the day was not too warm. Hermione said she had read that today’s weather was ideal for flying. 

Madam Hooch strode into the clearing shortly after everyone arrived, her short, gray hair looking windswept. Her yellow, hawk like eyes flicked across each student. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she said. “Go stand by a broomstick, everyone.” 

Hazel immediately made her way to the broom across from Hermione. She knew Hermione was nervous, from the way she had recited everything she had learned about flying and broomsticks. Unlike Hermione, she was excited to learn to fly. Hazel had always had a talent for the physical, as she was agile and graceful from years of avoiding Dudley’s fists. 

“Hold your hand over the broom and say ‘up!’” Madam Hooch said. “Command the broom.” 

“Up!” everyone said, some shouting, some whispering. 

Hazel was delighted when her broom shot into her hand at once. She looked to see how Hermione had fared. Her broom was still on the ground, rolling over each time she said “up!” bossily. 

She glanced around. Malfoy was looking around with a smug look on his face—he was one of the few that had successfully commanded the broom. Theo Nott was still struggling to get his to come up more than halfway to his hand. To her surprise, Neville Longbottom was holding his broom too. She thought the broom would have refused to come to him, with as much trouble the boy had staying afoot on the ground. 

Madam Hooch then taught them how to mount their brooms and how to grip the broom. She snapped at Malfoy, who had tried to tell Goyle what to do; as it turned out, he was gripping the broom incorrectly. Hazel sniggered as the blond boy turned red. 

“When I blow my whistle, push off the ground,” Madam Hooch said. “Let yourself rise into the air for a few seconds, then lean forward slightly to come back down. Three—two—” 

Neville lost his balance and accidentally pushed off the ground before Madam Hooch blew the whistle. 

“Come back, Longbottom!” she shouted. But Neville only rose higher and higher, winding high into the air. He turned his white face to the ground and slipped off the broom with a gasp. 

With a nasty crack, Neville landed on the ground, his broom falling to the ground beside him. Madam Hooch rushed to the poor boy’s side. 

“Broken wrist,” she murmured. “Up with you, boy. We’re going to the hospital wing.” Then she raised her voice. “All of you, stay here! Leave your brooms on the ground—if I catch any of you flying, you’ll be out of Hogwarts quicker than you can say ‘Quidditch.’” 

After Madam Hooch disappeared up the hill, Malfoy burst into laughter. He strutted over to where Neville had fallen and picked something up out of the grass. “Look, it’s that stupid thing Longbottom got from his gran.” 

“Oh, that’s a Remembrall!” Hermione said. “I read about—” 

“Give it to me,” Hazel said, cutting through the nervous chatter. 

Malfoy sneered. “I think I’ll leave it up a tree for Longbottom to find, Potter. You can tell your little boyfriend about it later—I’m sure he’ll be delighted to fly again to find it.” 

“Give it to me!” Hazel yelled, watching as Malfoy mounted his broom and flew into the air. All Malfoy’s boastful stories about flying as a child came back to her. He wasn’t lying—he really could fly. 

There was only one thing to do. 

Hazel mounted her broom and kicked off into the air, ignoring Hermione’s protests. 

Her hair and robes whipped around her as she flew into the sky, but it did not bother her. This was fantastic—she could fly, and fly well. Even as the others called for her to come back, that it was her first time on her broom, that she would fall, she knew none of it mattered. She was perfectly at ease on the broom. She was safe. She would not fall. 

She turned her broom to face Malfoy, taking pride in the stunned look on his face. 

“Give it to me, or I’ll knock you off that broom!” 

Malfoy sneered and said, “Catch it if you can, Potter!” Then he threw the Remembrall into the air. 

Hazel streaked towards it, the wind whipping in her ears. The Remembrall was falling now, falling fast. She was gathering more and more speed—Hermione let out a scream. She was close now, close to the ground and the Remembrall. She stretched out her hand and swiped at the Remembrall, which she clutched safely in her hand as she toppled gently onto the grass. 

No one was cheering—no one even looked slightly impressed. Hazel was a bit put out; that was her first time on a broom! Not to mention that would have been a spectacular catch, even on the ground. Sure, she had broken a rule, but she had saved Neville’s Remembrall, and that ought to make the Gryffindors happy. She couldn’t understand why no one, not even Hermione, was smiling. 

Until a pale, bony hand reached out and seized her wrist. 

She looked up in horror, straight into the black eyes of Professor Snape. 

Her heart sank. 

She was going to be expelled for sure. 

“Come with me, Potter,” he said, his voice quiet and deadly. 

Then he was dragging her off, dragging her towards the castle. He was wrenching her wrist—it hurt, but she wasn’t going to say anything. Complaining always made the punishment worse. She knew that well from the years she had spent at Privet Drive. She lengthened her strides, trying to keep pace with the professor to ease the pressure on her wrist. 

She looked back to the clearing where Hermione stood, head in her hands. Ron was looking at her, open-mouthed. Hazel wondered if this would be the last time she saw them, if she would be on the train home tonight. She could only imagine what the Dursleys would say—she hadn’t even lasted two weeks. Everything had been going so well, for the first time in her life. If only she had listened to Hermione and stayed on the ground! 

Once they were out of sight of the others, Professor Snape stopped and turned to her. His features were usually devoid of expression, but now they were contorted in fury. Hazel instinctively tried to pull back, but he maintained the firm grip on her wrist. She shrank back into herself, fearful of the man towering over her. 

“Are you going to expel me?” she asked, her voice small and fearful. “Madam Hooch—” 

“Was a fool to leave first years unattended with brooms.” 

“Oh,” she said. 

“And you were a fool to take that broom off the ground. I don’t care how much you’ve flown at home, this is—” 

“I’ve never flown before,” she said. She knew she ought not have interrupted the professor, but it seemed important that he knew that detail. 

“That was your first time on a broom?” he asked incredulously. 

Hazel nodded. 

Professor Snape considered this for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Surprised to find the snappish man at a loss for words, Hazel decided to try her luck at an explanation. 

“Malfoy…he was making fun of Neville. I know you said to present a united front, sir, but he just made me so angry. He took Neville’s Remembrall and was going to hide it or break it. I can’t stand bullies, sir.” 

“Nor can I, Miss Potter,” he said. “But you should not have flown. It was against the instructions of a teacher and a foolish thing to do. You could have seriously injured yourself.” 

Hazel hadn’t thought of that—she had been too angry at Malfoy to think much at all. She dropped her gaze to the ground. 

“Ten points from Slytherin,” he said. “And detention with me tonight. Now return to your friends, Miss Potter.” 

*HP* 

When Hazel arrived for her detention that night, she was surprised to find Professor Snape was not alone. A tall, muscular boy with coarse black hair was leaning against one of the classroom tables. She had seen Malfoy talking to him earlier that week—he was the Slytherin Quidditch Captain. Malfoy had been bragging about his skill at flying to the older boy, no doubt hoping to get a place on the team. Fortunately, it seemed Flint was not one to be persuaded by Malfoy. 

“Miss Potter, this is Mister Flint, captain of our Quidditch team.” 

Hazel nodded at Flint, who returned the gesture. 

“It seems someone told Mister Flint about the…incident…today.” 

“Oh,” Hazel said, not quite sure where this was going. 

“He was most impressed by what he heard. As such, he would like you to join the team.” 

“Join the team?” 

“Our current Seeker, Mr. Higgs, is much better suited to a Chaser position,” Flint said. “But you, you’d be a perfect Seeker. You’re tiny, and fast too, I’d bet. And if that was your first time on a broom, you can only get better.” 

Seeker? Chaser? Hazel had no idea what he was talking about and said as much. 

“Merlin, Potter! Haven’t you ever seen a game of Quidditch?” Flint said. 

Hazel shook her head. 

Flint muttered something under his breath. 

“Well, Potter. You’ve got a lot of learning to do.”


	3. Chapter 3

Hazel’s days fell into a pattern: classes, the library with Hermione, Quidditch practice, and feuding with Malfoy. Everything would have been quite pleasant if not for the blond boy—upon learning she was the youngest Quidditch player at Hogwarts in a century, he had redoubled his efforts to browbeat any admirers she might have into avoiding her. Even though none of the first years were brave enough to go against Malfoy’s edicts to befriend her, things were getting better for her. She found that the Quidditch team was not so afraid of Malfoy, and were rather keen on protecting their newest, youngest, and smallest player. Adrian Pucey was particularly fierce in this regard; he once hexed Crabbe when he had backed Hazel into a corner. 

The feud with Malfoy had gotten particularly bad after she had received her broomstick, a Cleansweep Five. She still had no idea who had sent it to her. Unfortunately, Malfoy had seen her receive the broom. After insulting it for being an old model, he had run to Snape, telling him that she had broken the rules by having a broomstick as a first year. To her delight, Snape had only sneered at him and said that exceptions could be made for the youngest player the Slytherin Quidditch Team had ever seen. Malfoy had promptly challenged her to a duel, but Hazel declined. She had nothing to prove to the haughty pureblood, and it was most likely just a plot to get her into trouble and kicked off the team. 

With her days filled, the month of September quickly passed. October was no different; it was Halloween before she knew it. 

Hazel had just left Transfiguration to meet Hermione when she came upon Ron and his two friends, Seamus and Dean. 

“Hello, Ron,” Hazel said. The tall boy looked away from her, his blue eyes darting to the ground. Though he had avoided her since she was sorted into Slytherin, she still hoped Ron would become her friend again. She was still the same girl he had known on the train—the only difference was she now wore a green tie instead of a ragged dress. 

“Shut up, dark witch,” Seamus said. Hazel frowned. The boy often hurled the insult at her; he loved to corner her and rant at her about how evil she was. It was no secret the Gryffindors despised her, but she had hoped they would eventually tire of calling her names and bullying her. Even Dudley couldn’t be bothered to bully her unless he was bored. The Gryffindors were different—they seemed to bully her not out of boredom, but because they thought she deserved it. 

“I was just saying hello,” she said. “Nothing evil about that.” 

“No,” Seamus said. “But there is something evil about you, you slimy Slytherin.” 

“Come on, mate,” Ron said. “Let’s just go back to Gryffindor Tower and play some Exploding Snap.” 

“Are you taking up for the sneaking snake?” 

“No,” Ron said. “I just don’t think this is a good idea.” 

“Well then,” Seamus said. “If you’re too much of a coward, why don’t you just go back to your prefect brother?” 

Ron’s ears turned red. He said nothing further and stayed completely still. Hazel had a feeling that he felt sorry for her, and left to his own devices, would be her friend, or at least be amicable. 

“He’s not a coward,” Hazel said. “I think you’re the coward, Finnegan. All bullies are cowards, somehow.” 

Now it was Seamus’s turn to flush. He drew his wand and pointed it at her, jabbing it with every word. “You take that back, dark witch.” 

It struck Hazel for the first time that she was quite alone and outnumbered. While she didn’t think Ron would hurt her, she couldn’t say the same of Seamus and didn’t know Dean well enough to guess. She drew her wand and reviewed the few hexes she knew, thankful that Hermione had insisted they self-study Defense Against the Dark Arts since Quirrell was such a joke. 

“Oh, so you’re going to hex me now, dark witch?” 

“No,” Hazel said. “Not unless you try to hex me.” 

“Ron’s right,” Dean whispered. “There could be other Slytherins around, not to mention Snape.” 

“So you’re a coward too, Thomas? Scared of a couple slimy snakes?” 

“You’d have to be a nutter not to be afraid of Snape,” Dean muttered. 

“And you think it’s brave to corner a lone girl three on one?” Hazel said. “Hex me and get it over with, then. I have places to be.” 

And then Seamus flourished his wand, not even enunciating a spell. With a loud bang, a jet of red light shot from his wand. Hazel, who didn’t think he would actually try to hex her, let alone succeed in doing so, didn’t even have time to duck as the hex struck her square in the chest. 

She was unconscious before she hit the ground. 

*HP* 

He hated Halloween. 

He pushed his food around his plate but didn’t eat. He simply had no appetite. Tonight was the night his only friend had died, and it had been his fault. Ten long years had passed, but his grief had not disappeared, nor had his guilt. Dumbledore had told him the pain would ease with time, but for Severus, it hurt as acutely as if it had happened yesterday. He loved her still, and would love her always, even though she had never loved him. 

Self-flagellation kept the wounds fresh. He simply could not let go, not when he had played a role in her death. He didn’t want to let go—she was the only good thing in his life, the thing that kept him going. She was the reason he did not give up. Dumbledore had tried to give him a chance for absolution through his oath to protect her daughter, but Severus knew he could never be forgiven for his sins. The only one who could free him from his burdens was Lily. But he had left her daughter an orphan, and she would never forgive him for that. If there was a life after death, he would not be forgiven by Lily or any divine being. If there was a heaven, he was destined for hell, and it was of his own making. 

Sometimes he suspected he was already living in it. 

Nothing good ever came of his actions. Halloween was just yet another reminder of all that had gone wrong in his life, a reminder of how everything he touched turned to ash. Despite his best efforts, he eventually destroyed everything that he loved. If he touched anything good and pure, it was defiled. 

He cast his eyes around for the girl. He still didn’t know what to make of her. Those hateful eyes in Lily’s face knocked him off balance. He could scarcely bear to look her in the eye and calling a girl with Lily’s sweet face ‘Miss Potter’ made him want to tear his own lungs out. The girl was not completely like Lily, but neither was she Potter reborn, as he had imagined her. She had a flair for magic, much like her mother, but also a penchant for disobeying the rules, if the incident with the broom was any indication. Perhaps it would have been wiser to stamp the rule-breaking out of her early on, so she was not tempted to become like her miscreant father. But instead he had rewarded her talent with a place on the Slytherin Quidditch Team, thinking that it was better for her to hone her natural talents than neglect them (not to mention the thrill he would get when they thoroughly trounced Gryffindor). And in a moment of weakness, he had sent her the best broomstick he could afford to give her. 

As he looked around, he did not find the red-headed girl. She wasn’t in the Great Hall, which struck him as odd—the feast was a mandatory event. Perhaps she was simply late; students were still wandering in. He thought she might be in the library with Granger, as she was wont to do. It would be typical of the two girls to be cloistered in the library while everyone else was celebrating. If not, perhaps she was getting ready in her dormitory; many of the students dressed up in fine robes and dresses due to the special significance of Halloween in the wizarding world. 

While it marked the beginning of Samhain, few were still immersed enough in the old ways to celebrate it. But ever since the Dark Lord had fallen, it had been treated as a holiday by those who had opposed him. It was a joyous occasion, the night the Girl Who Lived ended his reign of terror. The Death Eaters and their families, of course, felt quite the opposite—it was the day their dreams of domination were dashed. Halloween made it simple to tell who came from what background—those whose families opposed the Dark Lord treated the feast as a party, laughing loudly with friends and mingling with other Houses, and those whose families supported the Dark Lord kept to themselves, scowling at the festivities. 

It occurred to him that many of his Slytherins would think he was scowling for the same reasons they were. They thought him loyal to the Dark Lord. They would never know that it was not for him he scowled, but for Lily Evans. 

He did not like that there were students who knew of his past as a Death Eater, but he could not do anything about it. They had learned it from their fathers and mothers, who had been his comrades. He knew that Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott all knew—how could they not, with the fathers they had? And Greengrass quite possibly knew about his past as well, as her father had been one of the Aurors who placed him in Azkaban. And that was just among the first years. He knew that Flint, Bole, Pucey and several others at least suspected. 

“The way you’re acting, Severus, you’d think someone just died,” McGonagall said. 

He flinched as if she had struck him. Someone had died, albeit a long time ago. Lily and Potter had been two of her favorite students—surely some part of her still mourned. 

“What’s wrong with you?” she said. 

“Nothing except for having to suffer your odious company.” 

McGonagall gaped at him for a moment, opening her mouth before shutting it. “If that’s how you want to be,” she said, before turning to speak to Dumbledore, who was seated on the other side of her. 

He stabbed a piece of steak. He wished she would have argued with him, anything to take his mind off what had happened ten years ago. 

He watched as the last of the students filed in, expecting to see the girl come in with Granger. The know-it-all’s head was bowed—she looked distinctly cowed, an odd expression for the usually irascible girl. But the girl wasn’t with her, which was most unusual. After they had partnered in Potions that first day, the two girls had become inseparable. 

A few moments later, a trio of Gryffindor boys entered, Finnegan at their head. Weasley was white and fearful, and Thomas kept shooting less than discreet glances at the head table. 

They were up to something, he had no doubt. But what that something was, he would have to wait to find out. He knew that Finnegan was the worst bully in his year and that the girl was a frequent target of his and could only hope her mysterious absence was not related to the boy’s elation. 

And then, in the dimly lit hall, Quirrell burst through the doors, terror clearly written on his face. “Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know.” 

The coward fainted, falling to the floor. 

Pandemonium replaced the gentle roar of conversation. Dumbledore raised his wand and sent sparks into the air with a bang that made Severus shudder. It took several attempts, but eventually he managed to bring the hall to silence. He instructed the prefects to lead their Houses to their dormitories, and then started towards the dungeons with long strides. 

“It seems Halloween is to be rather more exciting than we thought,” Dumbledore said. 

Severus’s heart sank as his previous thoughts came back to him—the Potter girl never came into the hall. She could be in the dungeons, with the troll, this very instant. The horrible sinking rested in his stomach. He couldn’t fail Lily. He couldn’t let anything happen to the little girl he had sworn to protect. 

“Headmaster,” he said. “Miss Potter never came into the Great Hall for the feast.” 

Dumbledore looked at him with his damnably twinkling eyes, but it was McGonagall who spoke. “Really, Severus—you probably just missed her.” 

“I make it a point to be aware of my surroundings, Minerva—the girl was not there.” 

“Then perhaps you should go look for her,” she said tartly. 

“Perhaps I will,” he said. 

“Now, Severus,” Dumbledore said. “We could use your help dealing with the troll—I am sure Miss Potter is fine, wherever she is at. It is a rather significant day for her, after all. Most probably she is merely brooding in her rooms, as is her right.” 

That did nothing to soothe Severus’s feeling that there was something horribly wrong. 

But he headed to the dungeons with the rest of the teachers nonetheless. Minerva was now protesting that they ought to have escorted their Houses to their common rooms before seeking out the troll, in case the troll moved into the path of one the groups of students. Severus agreed—he didn’t know what Dumbledore was thinking, leaving the students’ safety to mere prefects—but it was too late now. Their best hope lay in finding the troll before it could hurt anyone. And all he could do was hope the troll did not find the mysteriously missing girl. 

Then a realization came over him: no one had awakened Quirrell after he fainted. The worthless man had been beneath his notice for years; he was just the soft-spoken, stuttering Muggle Studies teacher. But since the man had come back from Albania, something about him had changed. Severus’s faded Dark Mark prickled every time he neared the man. He had told Dumbledore about this odd phenomenon, but the damned old man had only twinkled at him and asked him to keep an eye on Quirrell. 

He had a sinking sensation that this was all a clever ruse, one he had not believed Quirrell capable of. Quirrell must have let it in as a distraction. It was a near impossibility for a troll to enter the school without help. And there was only one reason to distract the entire staff and lock away the student body: the stone. If Quirrell was somehow connected to the Dark Lord, as he suspected, that could only spell disaster. 

In a swirl of robes, he set off for the third-floor corridor at once, not bothering to explain to anyone else. As far as he was concerned, Dumbledore could have dealt with the troll alone; they didn’t need him, Dumbledore’s comment about needing his help be damned. What they did need was someone to protect the stone, and that didn’t require telling them about what he was doing. They would just call him paranoid. Dumbledore alone among the staff trusted his intuition. The others still thought of him as the little boy who spent too much time in the hospital wing after being cursed by the Marauders. 

He entered the forbidden corridor, wand drawn. He did not know what protections were on the stone, aside from his own. All he knew was who had designed the protections. There was Hagrid, who no doubt had used some ferocious creature with an absurd name; Sprout, who would have used a violent plant he had no patience for dealing with; Flitwick, who could have charmed just about anything; McGonagall, who had the skill and imagination to design any number of nasty traps; and Dumbledore’s own protections, which were certainly clever and thoughtful. He didn’t fancy facing any of them, though he was confident he could overcome them. 

He pushed the door open, to find Quirrell cowering in a corner, just out of reach of a chained, three-headed dog. A cerberus. He had no great knowledge of magical creatures and knew little about the creature beyond its name and resistance to curses. He had never been interested in creatures, beyond their uses in Potions. 

One of the heads turned his way—before he could cast a curse, the creature latched on to his leg. He howled in pain as the dog shook its head; if it didn’t let ago, it was going to tear his leg off. It wrenched his knee. Pain shot up his leg into his hip. He cast as many cursing as he could think of, as fast as he could, hoping they would at least distract the head currently attached to his leg. The other two heads lost interest in Quirrell, deciding that he was the more appealing target, since he was within reach. 

His heart pounded—he was going to die here, all because he hadn’t trusted the protections on the stone. His curses had no effect on the dog, where they would have disabled any human five times over. He had survived spying on one of the most fearsome wizards who had ever lived and was going to be bested by a glorified mutt. As much as he hated his life, he did not want to die, not like this. He was no Gryffindor with illusions of a heroic death, but he wanted it to mean something. He didn’t want to be eaten by a cerberus, allowing a mediocre wizard in the service of the Dark Lord access to the most powerful alchemical substance ever created. 

And then his luck turned. 

Quirrell, taking advantage of the dog’s distraction, made his way to the trapdoor under its feet. The dog, remembering its purpose, let go of his leg and turned to Quirrell, who let out a scream of terror before fleeing out the door. 

The danger to the stone was past. As quickly as he could, he limped his way out the door, pain shooting through his leg with every step. The dog growled behind him. He risked a glance over his shoulder to find the heads were licking up a pool of his blood. 

He had never liked dogs, not since one of neighborhood children had set a burly mutt on him in his youth. He still had the scars on his right arm where it had bitten him. With pain flaring in his leg and blood pooling at his feet, he had no doubt that he would bear yet another scar as a memory of this night. 

He started to shake as the adrenaline left his system. That was the closest to death he had come since the war. He gripped at his leg, which was throbbing now. He could hardly stand. Now that the stone was safe, he should make his way back to the dungeons to let Dumbledore know what had happened. But as he limped out of the corridor towards the main staircase, he knew he would never make it. 

As soon as he exited the forbidden corridor, he heard a cry of “Professor!” He nearly groaned. Just what he wanted—a student to find him injured and vulnerable, outside the forbidden corridor.

Worse, it was the Granger girl, with Greengrass close on her heels. 

“Professor, I asked Daphne if she had seen Hazel—she never showed up for the feast. And—” 

“I am aware, Miss Granger. Both of you, head to McGonagall’s office and stay there. It is not safe for you to be running around the school.” 

“But Professor, Hazel was supposed to meet me in the library. I’ve thought about it now. She’d never stand me up, she isn’t like that. And I heard Seamus talking about ‘putting a slimy snake in her place.’ I think—I think they did something to Hazel.” 

He paled. Finnegan had looked rather pleased with himself, though the Weasley boy had looked uneasy at his side. It was entirely possible they had done something to the girl. Memories of his own school days came back to him. He too had been despised and outnumbered, friendless except for a lone Gryffindor girl. 

“What was her last class?” 

“Transfiguration was our last class, sir,” Daphne said. “I—I saw Finnegan and his gang follow her.” 

“And pray tell why you did not ensure your housemate was safe after three hostile boys followed her?” 

“Draco, sir. He…bullies anyone he thinks is too friendly with Hazel. Threatens them with Vincent and Gregory.” 

Severus barely restrained the curse about to slip out of his mouth. Of course Draco was a bully. He was a spoiled brat and always had been; even as the boy’s godfather, he held no fondness for him. In his early years, he had tried to be a steadying influence on him, but he had only grown further apart from the boy. After Lucius had told Draco he was a half-blood with less than auspicious beginnings, he had lost any influence he might have had over the boy. He was only thankful that the boy had not shared what he knew of his past with the rest of the school. 

“That is a matter to be dealt with at a later date, Miss Greengrass. I am appalled that no one has brought this to my attention before now.” No, he was appalled that he had known Draco’s disposition and did nothing to monitor the boy. He was appalled he had failed the girl he had sworn to protect, already, within just a few months of knowing her. Gathering himself, he said, “Now go to McGonagall’s office. You will be safe there until one of us come to release you to your respective common rooms.” 

Granger shook her head. In a small voice, she said, “I want to go with you to find Hazel.” 

“And sir, if there is a troll around, is it really safe for us to go anywhere alone?” Greengrass added. 

He let out an irritated huff. Much as he hated to admit it, the Greengrass girl had a valid point—he would be remiss in his duties to them if he allowed them to wander off unescorted in his haste to find the girl. He had no time to argue, nor time to war with his instincts. 

“Come,” he said. 

Granger and Greengrass exchanged gleeful looks. 

“Say nothing, and do as I say,” he said, watching as the girls nodded solemnly. 

As they walked towards the Transfiguration classroom, he muttered under his breath, “Merlin save me from adolescent girls.” They had, after all, been the bane of his existence since childhood. 

After a moment of his limping stiffly, Granger said, “What happened to your leg, sir?” 

“Did I not tell you to be quiet? If you would cease your incessant question-asking, then you might realize not everything concerns you.” 

The girl bowed her head. 

When they reached the Transfiguration classroom, he turned to take the quickest path to the library. If the girl was supposed to meet Granger there, it was likely she took this route. He disliked spending time chasing after a first year, but he was keenly aware of his vow to Dumbledore to protect. 

He also knew only too well what it was like to bullied and near-friendless. 

Thankfully, there was no sign of the troll. That was his first turn of luck that evening. But he kept his wand drawn and lighted all the same. 

And then he saw her. 

Her red hair was splayed about her head, her body contorted in an unnatural shape. He broke into a run, his injured leg forgotten even as it stung with every step. As he drew closer, he saw a pool of blood under her. His chest constricted—she couldn’t be dead, she couldn’t be, he couldn’t have failed in his task, not like this, not because of a gang of first year boys. He couldn’t have failed Lily again. 

He kneeled down beside her, taking her pulse with a trembling hand, ignoring the gasps of Granger and Greengrass as they caught up to him. Her pulse was weak, but there—she was alive. 

He knew enough of healing not to move her until he had ascertained the damage. He cast a diagnostic spell on her—her only injury was a wound on her chest. Tearing open her shirt to get a better look, he could scarcely believe a first year was capable of inflicting such a ghastly wound. Usually they confined themselves to Trip Jinxes, Jelly-Fingers Curses, and the like. He didn’t know of a curse that a first year could have encountered that would do damage like this, a deep gash surrounded by a burn. It was possible that this was the result of a burst of uncontrolled magic. If that was the case, healing it would be a difficult task best left to Madam Pomfrey. 

He slid his arms underneath the girl, lifted her to his chest, and started walking down the corridor towards the hospital wing, Greengrass and Granger trailing silently behind.


	4. Chapter 4

Hazel awoke to an odd trumpeting sound. It took her a moment to realize it was, in fact, someone blowing their nose. With a blink of her bleary eyes, she rolled over in her bed to face the source of the noise. 

It was Hagrid, red-eyed with tears leaking down his rough face into his wild beard. Hermione was patting his back, while Daphne tittered excitedly. 

“She’s awake, Hagrid!” Daphne said. “Oh, Hazel, we’ve been so worried about you.” 

Hazel blinked her eyes—why was Daphne here? The two girls were on friendly enough terms—she liked Daphne the best of her roommates—but they could not be considered friends. Malfoy had ensured that. When Daphne had once taken up for her, he had hit her with a Leg-Locker Curse, causing her to fall down, to her classmates’ amusement. The most Daphne had dared do since then was share sympathetic looks with her from across the room. Hazel didn’t blame her for not wanting to be her friend—she knew just how difficult being bullied made life and didn’t wish it on anyone else. 

Guilt churned in Hazel’s stomach at the sight of Hagrid. The giant man had been her first friend; she believed that Hagrid truly cared about her and would not be bothered by the fact she was a Slytherin—his presence by her bedside proved that. In her desperation to find friends her own age, she had forgotten all about Hagrid. She hadn’t even bothered to visit him all term, even though he had told her she was welcome to any time. 

“One of yeh should go get Professor Snape,” Hagrid said. “He don't say much, but he’s been worried ‘bout her.” 

Daphne nodded. “I’ll do it.” 

Hazel pushed herself upright, surprised to find herself feeling weak. She allowed herself to collapse back down into the bed, snuggling into the soft mattress, worming her way deeper into the blankets. 

Hagrid blew into his table-cloth sized handkerchief. 

“I’m alright, Hagrid!” Hazel said. “I really am.” 

He looked at her, doubt etched on his features. Then his black eyes crinkled into a smile. “I know yeh are, or yeh will be. Yer made of stronger stuff than that—yeh had to be, living with those M—” 

“—nasty people!” Hazel said, looking around a bit wildly. She hadn’t told anyone, not even Hermione, that she had been raised by Muggles. It wasn’t that she was ashamed, precisely, or that she thought all Muggles were bad—she simply knew it was not a welcome thing within Slytherin House. Half-bloods were tolerated, provided they weren’t too Muggle-ish, but Muggle-borns were either ignored or despised. While she wasn’t a Muggle-born, she might as well be one, despite her fame—she had known nothing about the wizarding world, and that sort of disconnection from wizarding heritage was deeply frowned upon in Slytherin House. She trusted Hermione, but she knew that the more people who knew a secret, the harder I was to keep. 

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Nasty people? I thought you lived with relatives,” she said. 

“Er, yeah,” Hazel said. “They just don’t like me much. Think I’m a waste of space, actually.” 

“That’s horrible.” 

“Yeah, it is,” Hazel said. She didn’t much like dwelling on it. The Dursleys were her last remaining relatives. As much as they disliked each other, they were all she had. She wasn’t deluded enough to think that meant anything to them; all it really meant to her was that she would be forced to endure their most pleasurable company until she was of age. “I just have all the luck,” she said. 

“That isn’t funny, Hazel! You could have died.” 

“That serious? I feel fine now. Just a bit weak.” 

“You’ve been out two days. I thought you were dead, when Professor Snape found you. I think he thought you were dead too. It was horrible. Do you remember what happened?” 

Hagrid cleared his throat. “Professor Snape said not to be asking her questions till he got here. We ought to listen to him, Hermione—he knows what he’s doin’.” 

“I suppose,” Hermione said. “But I do wonder how he hurt his leg. It was bleeding rather badly when we found him and Madam Pomfrey forced him into an examination. I’ve never seen him so angry, not even after Neville melted his fifth cauldron.” 

Hagrid looked away guiltily. 

“Hagrid, do you know something about it?” Hazel said. 

“Listen—it isn’t none of yer business how Professor Snape got bit—” 

“Bit?” Hermione said. 

“Does this have anything to do with that package from Gringotts?” Hazel asked. “I’ve been thinking—it could have been that vault that was broken into!” 

Hagrid looked away. That was answer enough for Hazel. “It does, doesn’t it?” she said. “Me and Hermione have talked about it a lot, but it could be anything! We’ve done so much research on magical objects, but it could be almost any of the ones we’ve read about. Come one, Hagrid, you can tell us—we won’t tell anyone.” 

“I’m tellin’ yeh, yer meddlin’ with things that don’ concern yeh! Yeh just need to focus on getting’ better, Hazel. Yeh forget about Snape gettin’ bit by Fluffy an’ yeh forget what it’s guardin’, that’s between Professor Dumbledore an’ Nicolas Flamel—” 

“So there’s someone called Nicolas Flamel involved, is there?” Hazel said. 

Hagrid looked furious with himself. But just as Hazel was about to press him more, Professor Snape stormed into the room, Daphne close behind him. 

It struck Hazel just how much Professor Snape commanded whatever room he was in; everyone had their eyes on him. If the scrutiny bothered him, he showed no signs of it. A stormy expression was fixed upon his face as he limped across the room, one that did not relax when he laid eyes upon Hazel. She had to suppress a shudder. This was the Professor Snape all the Gryffindors feared, the one whose ire she had never drawn. She hoped that the professor’s anger was not directed towards her. 

“Miss Potter,” he said, his voice very cold. 

“Professor,” she said meekly. 

“What do you remember of your attack?” 

“My attack, sir?” 

“As I recall, you had a chest wound, not a head wound, Miss Potter. Cease your prevaricating and answer me.” 

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I, er, it was Seamus. He cornered me after Transfiguration. I don’t know how he did it, but he cursed me, sir, without saying anything. He just waved his wand and out came the curse.” She didn’t want to tell him about Ron—telling on him was a sure way to ensure he never wanted to be her friend again. And Dean, he had tried to talk Seamus out of it. Really, all the blame rested on Seamus. If he had not been so determined to seek her out and bully her, then none of this would have happened. 

“Indeed.” 

“What happened?” 

“A burst of uncontrolled magic. Foolish wand waving often begets disastrous results. Now tell me, Miss Potter, was anyone else with him?” 

She looked away from her professor’s cold black eyes. He knew, somehow. Knew that Seamus wasn’t alone. She didn’t want to turn Ron in. It would be so easy to, so easy to get back at the boy for the months he had stood by and allowed his friend to bully her. But when she opened her mouth, no accusatory words came out. She remembered the boy on the train, embarrassed by the dirt on his nose and his mother’s corned-beef sandwich. She remembered how he had been just as desperate as her to be accepted. 

“No one,” she said, bringing her gaze back up to Professor Snape’s eyes. As long as Seamus didn’t turn his own friends in, she was safe. Ron was safe. 

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow, but if he suspected her of lying, he said nothing. 

In the blink of an eye, he was swooping out of the room, black robes billowing behind him. 

*HP* 

“I want those boys expelled,” Severus said. 

Dumbledore smiled and offered him a lemon drop. 

He scowled at him. “Now’s not the time,” he said coldly. “Those boys nearly killed the girl.” 

“That they did,” Dumbledore said with a sigh. “But I cannot expel them. Particularly as Miss Potter said Mister Finnegan was her sole attacker.” 

“I saw it in her mind,” he said. “She’s protecting that Weasley boy, the worthless coward.” 

“Now, Severus,” Dumbledore said. “Not all Gryffindors find their bravery quite so early on. I’m sure Mister Weasley is a fine boy, as all his brothers are. He has just yet to discover it.” 

Severus cursed and clenched his hands into fists. Here Dumbledore was, all these years later, protecting another gang of Gryffindor bullies. It was always, always at the expense of him and his Slytherins. He didn’t know what it would take for the old man to see the error of his ways—probably someone dying. 

“When will you learn that not all of your precious Gryffindors are saints? Wasn’t Black proof enough of that? You didn’t expel him either, not even when he tried to kill me, and look what he turned out to be! And now you won’t expel the boys who nearly killed the Girl Who Lived!” 

Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moon glasses. “Is this about you or Miss Potter, Severus?” 

“The girl,” he spat. “I’m her Head of House—it is my duty to protect her from miscreants like Finnegan!” 

“And that you are, my boy. While I understand your zeal, I simply cannot condone expelling a first year for an uncontrolled burst of magic.” 

“He pointed her wand at her with the intent to hurt her,” Severus said through clenched teeth. “He had intent, and his wand provided the means. Surely that is enough grounds for punishment.” 

“Grounds for punishment, yes,” Dumbledore said. “Grounds for expulsion, no.” 

“They left her there to die,” Severus said. 

“They are eleven-year-old boys. I sincerely doubt they intended for her to die.” 

“That doesn’t change what almost happened.” 

“It doesn’t. But we must remember the young lack the hard-won judgment of their elders.” 

Severus scowled. It didn't take much judgment to know better than to leave a bleeding girl on the floor. Even he, for all his dismal choices, would have know better than that at their age. He had known all too well what it meant to be the victim of injury, even at that tender age. Though he had hated Potter the elder, he had not wished him dead--not at eleven, anyways. 

“Since you clearly aren’t going to expel them, what are you going to do? Offer them a lemon drop and send them on their merry way?” Severus snapped. He knew there was no changing the old man’s mind once it was made up, and this was just yet another incident in a pattern of favoritism. He had suffered from it, and now Miss Potter would as well. 

Dumbledore, as always, seemed to know what he was thinking. “Severus, I would do the same if Mister Malfoy had been her attacker. First years are a danger to themselves and those around them because they are not yet socialized into our world, lack judgment, and struggle to control their magic. We would be doing everyone a disservice by expelling such young children, even for an incident such as this.” 

“So what are you going to do?” 

“Two weeks confinement to his dormitory should suffice, I believe.” 

Two weeks. That was what the fool got for nearly killing Lily’s daughter; the other boys who had let it happen would not be punished at all. He was fuming but said nothing—his words would be nothing but impotent ravings. There was nothing he could do but keep an eye on the girl and keep Finnegan away from her. 

As he turned to leave, Dumbledore said, “And keep an eye on Quirrell, won’t you?” 

*HP* 

“I can’t believe you lied to Professor Snape,” Hermione said. “He was only trying to help you!” 

Hazel shushed her. “Be quiet, or Pince will hear us and I’ll be in a world of trouble.” 

“You shouldn’t have lied for Ron,” Daphne added in a whisper. “If he ever was your friend, he’s a bad one.” 

“I know,” Hazel said. “I just can’t help thinking about how things were on the train.” 

She had thought Ron would always be her friend, that their bonding over a few chocolate frogs would bring her true friendship. But more and more she was accepting reality—they would never be friends, really, unless he was brave enough to buck House rivalries and his other friends. Hazel may never have had friends before, but she knew a real friend would never have stood by while she was attacked, let alone leave her there to die afterwards. If Ron apologized and changed she would accept him, but she couldn’t be his friend right now—it was simply impossible to trust him in the wake of her attack. 

But she knew her attack could have been much worse. While she had almost died, she had only spent three days in the hospital wing. 

Hazel had been released from the hospital wing two days earlier, to the delight of the Slytherin Quidditch Team. She was cleared to play that Saturday, though Madam Pomfrey had fussed about the dangers of Quidditch. 

Hermione too had been delighted to have her friend back. They were spending more time in the library than ever, and now Daphne had joined them too. 

Now that Daphne had told Snape about Malfoy's bullying, she was no longer too afraid to befriend Hazel. When asked about her sudden change of heart, she had only shrugged and said, “I never should have been so afraid. I wrote my father about you. He told me not to be such a coward.” Hazel thought that was a rather Gryffindorish thing to say to a Slytherin. 

With more information on the mysterious package, they had renewed their search to discover what it was. Daphne was a great help; though not as academically inclined as Hermione or Hazel, a third set of eyes was naturally useful. They had stopped searching books on magical artefacts, and instead focused on discovering just who the illusive Nicolas Flamel was. 

“Why are we doing this again?” Daphne asked, shelving _Great Magical Men of the Nineteenth Century_. 

“I don’t know, really,” Hazel said. “It seems important—there was that break in, and if Professor Snape went into that corridor and got hurt, it must be something cool. And just imagining what it could be is fun!” 

“If you say so,” Daphne said. 

As Hermione opened her mouth to respond, another voice sounded behind them. “Miss Potter.” 

Hazel turned to face Professor Snape, her heart pounding—had he found out she lied to him? Had Seamus told him that Ron and Dean were there with him when it had happened? The professor had never been openly spiteful towards her; in fact, he was rather reserved compared to how he treated other students, as if he was reserving judgment on her. She hoped she had not destroyed that for the small chance of Ron deciding to be her friend again. 

His black eyes were boring into hers. She looked away—she didn’t like how it felt, looking into Snape’s eyes. It was as if he could look into her very soul and see all her secrets. 

“I wanted to inform you that Mister Finnegan has received two weeks' suspension for his infractions, and Mister Malfoy a week’s detention with myself. They shall not be bothering you again.” 

Hazel started to thank him, but he limped off towards the Restricted Section before she could say a word. 

Daphne snorted behind her. “They shall not be bothering you again,” she said, imitating Professor Snape’s deep, nasally tone. 

“Daphne!” Hazel said, suppressing a giggle. “He might hear you!” 

“I don’t care,” she said. “They won’t be bothering you again—what a stupid thing to say. If detention will stop Malfoy from being, well, Malfoy, then I’m a Knarl.” 

“Well,” Hermione said. “At least they’ll know they won’t always get away with it.” 

“I suppose,” Daphne said. 

A few moments later, Professor Snape stormed out of the Restricted Section, ancient tome in hand. Hazel nearly devolved into giggles, Daphne’s imitation still fresh in her mind. Even Hermione was smiling, and she usually advocated for showing every professor complete respect. Hazel felt a little guilty, laughing at the man who had helped save her life, but couldn’t help herself. 

Daphne’s smile fell from her face. “Have you ever noticed how his accent sounds forced? He just sounds…funny. It’s so fun to imitate.” 

Hazel furrowed her brows. She had never thought about Professor Snape’s accent before, but now that Daphne mentioned it, he did sound odd, nasally voice aside. He didn’t sound like anyone from anywhere she knew—he sounded more like an old telly actor who had been taught to sound proper for a role. 

“I never thought about it before,” Hazel said. “But it is weird.” 

“Snape’s a weird bloke,” Daphne said. “My father told me not to trust him.” 

Hazel wasn’t sure that was entirely fair—Snape had been nothing but…she didn’t know. The man wasn’t exactly kind to her, but he had put her on the Quidditch team instead of punishing her. But he was downright horrible to everyone else, except for a select few Slytherins—he could be as much of a bully as Finnegan and Malfoy. 

Before Hazel could formulate a response to reflect her mixed feelings on Professor Snape, Hermione slid a book across the table to her. “I’ve been meaning to give you this.” 

Hazel looked down at the title— _Quidditch Through the Ages._

“Thanks, Hermione! I bet I’ll learn loads from this. I can only remember so much of what Marcus tells me. There are seven hundred ways to commit a foul, after all,” she said with a grin. 

“I’ll be cheering for you,” Hermione said. “I don’t know anyone on Gryffindor’s team and am feeling short on House pride after what Seamus did to you.” 

“I’ll loan you my scarf,” Daphne said, rubbing her hands together. “I can see the look on Weasley’s face now.” 

*HP* 

Quidditch season had begun. The weather was gray and cold and rainy—good flying weather was gone. Marcus said that the real test of a Quidditch team was flying in foul weather. Hazel agreed; it was much harder for her to perform Sloth Grip Rolls when the wind made it difficult to fly in a straight line. Gryffindor was supposed to be their easiest match, but the weather could very well make all the difference if one team was unprepared for it. 

The morning of her first Quidditch match, Hazel was terribly nervous. What if she let everyone down? Marcus, Adrian, Terrence, and everyone else had such faith in her. Even Professor Snape must have had faith in her abilities, to place her on the team in the first place. 

The whole team was trying to cheer her up, each of them telling her about their first Quidditch matches. It didn’t make Hazel feel any better—Marcus had been hit by a Bludger and knocked out for three days. They did this while loading her plate with sausages and eggs, telling her to eat, that playing on an empty stomach was a bad thing to do. Hazel thought that this must be what having older brothers felt like. 

By eleven o’clock, the team had made their way down to the pitch. Hazel changed into her green Quidditch robes in the locker room. When she stepped outside, Marcus was clearing his throat, preparing to give his speech. 

“This is the big debut of our newest member,” he said. “We have to prove she’s more than a pretty, famous face. We have to win this one. We have to show the school that we’re the best. We’ve worked the hardest, we’ve got the best players. We’ll win this one, and the rest. Good luck. It’s time.” 

Hazel followed the Marcus onto the field, willing herself not to shake. She could do this. She had practiced for months for this very moment—she would find the Snitch, and Slytherin would win. If she followed Marcus’s directions, everything would be fine, and they would win, as expected. 

She looked around the stands and spotted a familiar head of bushy hair next to the massive Hagrid, who was wearing a blanket-sized green scarf. Hermione waved. Daphne stood on her other side, beaming. Hazel resisted the temptation of waving back. 

Madam Hooch stood in the middle of the pitch, holding her broom, whistle around her throat. “I want a nice fair game from all of you,” she said. 

The Gryffindor captain, a tall, broad boy by the name of Wood, nodded. Marcus sneered at him—Hazel smirked. The Slytherin team was a lot of things, but fair wasn’t one of them. They would do anything to win, underhanded or not. Some might say that indicated a lack of skill, but as Hazel had learned, it merely meant being skillful in another way. 

“Mount your brooms, please,” she said, placing the whistle in her mouth. She puffed out her cheeks and blew. The whistle sounded loudly. 

Hazel kicked off into the air on her Cleansweep Five. It wasn’t the fastest broom, or the newest, or the one with the best handling, but it was hers. She had faith it could see her to victory, even though the Gryffindor Seeker, Kenneth Towler, was flying a Nimbus Two Thousand, the newest and best broom. Hazel had read that brooms often made all the difference for Seekers, but Marcus had told her to have faith in her abilities and their tactics. 

“And Marcus Flint takes the Quaffle, right off,” the commentator said. Hazel glanced at him—it was the black boy often seen in the company of the Weasley twins, Lee Jordan. 

“He passes it to Pucey—his first year on the team, lots of new blood this year—and Pucey really moves down the pitch. Flint flying like an eagle beside him—oof, Pucey gets hit in the shoulder with a Bludger and drops the Quaffle—Katie Bell catches it and heads down the pitch—passes it to Angelina Johnson—oh no, Flint intercepts it—he heads towards goal—dodges a bludger—and no, no its past Wood—Slytherin scores!” 

Hazel grinned, pulling her eyes from the scene. She wanted to find the Snitch before Towler, and find it fast. She loved Quidditch and would fly all day if she could but wanted to prove herself by ending the match as soon as possible; Flint had told her to do so, so long as Slytherin was not more than 150 points behind. But the way the match was going, it was unlikely that was going to happen. 

She circled the pitch, Towler trailing along behind her. Flint had told her he would probably do that—it was a favorite tactic of his. He relied upon the other Seeker to find the Snitch, then used his superior broomstick to overtake him or her and get the win. It would have worked rather well last year, if not for the Gryffindor team’s inability to score; they had lost by a hundred points, despite having got the Snitch. It was a favorite match of Flint’s, so he often recounted it. 

Hazel brought her broom to a stop and elbowed Towler hard in the ribs. Cobbing was only a crime if Madam Hooch saw it—that was Flint’s mantra. The older boy scowled at her and elbowed her back, drawing boos from the crowd. That was another one of Flint’s strategies: she could get away with playing rough because she was so tiny, but the moment another player touched her, it looked terrible. The crowd would draw attention to it, and Madam Hooch would keep a closer eye on Towler, who was known to be a terrible cobber. 

“Slytherin in possession,” Lee Jordan said. “Chaser Pucey dodges a bludger, then another, flies around the hoops, throws the Quaffle, and scores!” 

Another idea struck her—Towler, despite having the latest broomstick, was not a great flier. Flint said he had nothing on her. If she could make him think she saw the Snitch and pull out of a dive at the last moment… 

She titled her broomstick down and made to pull off just such a dive, but it was for naught, as her broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch; she nearly fell. She had never felt anything like it before. Deciding she must have imagined it, she moved to dive again, but then it bucked once more. She wanted to get Marcus’s attention, to call a time-out, but she didn’t dare take a hand off her broomstick while it was behaving so oddly. 

The broom carried her higher and higher, jerking and twitching as it rose into the air. 

Her broom began vibrating—it was almost impossible for her to hold on as it lurched and jerked. She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Pucey flying towards her—someone had noticed her distress. He flew up to try to pull her off the bucking broom, but it was no use—the broom just kept jumping higher. She could hear gasps coming from the crowd. She closed her eyes, willing herself to hold on, to just hold on. 

And suddenly, it stopped. 

Then she saw a flash of gold. 

She sped off towards it, leaving a gaping Towler in her wake. She was hurling towards it, faster and faster still. It was flying just out of reach, she was accelerating, she was reaching out for it—she grasped it in her hand with a triumphant yell. 

“I’ve got the Snitch!” she shouted, holding it up in the air. She sped towards the ground, the hand with the Snitch fluttering feebly still in the air. 

Once she was on the ground, Flint and Pucey hoisted her into the air. Fear had been replaced by elation; she had won the match for Slytherin. Lee Jordan was still dejectedly announcing the results—Slytherin had won two hundred points to twenty. 

Hazel was sure no feeling in the world could match this.


	5. Chapter 5

After several hours, Hazel and Daphne managed to slip away from the Slytherin party. Hazel was something like the guest of honor, having caught the Snitch to win the match after staying on a misbehaving broom, so the other Slytherins were not keen on having her leave her own party. Some of the older students had smuggled in butterbeer and firewhisky; the party had grown more and more raucous. It was not until Professor Snape had come in and told them to be quieter that everyone had been sufficiently cowed to let their favorite Seeker do as she pleased. 

They raced to the library, where they knew Hermione would be waiting. Indeed she was, her bushy head bowed over a book yellowed with age. When she heard them approaching, she looked up, a broad, buck-toothed smile fixed on her face. 

“Hazel, Daphne! I thought you weren’t going to come.” 

“Miss the library?” Daphne said. “Not for anything.” 

Ignoring the blonde girl’s sarcasm, Hazel sat down beside Hermione, who was now closing her book, a sure sign of trouble. Daphne had been acting strange all evening, shooting furtive glances at her from across the common room. She had looked especially spooked when Professor Snape had entered to scold them all, clambering across the room to get away from the man; usually he only invoked that response in Gryffindors. 

“You almost died again, Hazel,” Hermione said, her brown eyes wide and somber. 

“It was pretty scary,” Hazel admitted. “But I managed to hold onto my broom. And Adrian was circling below me—he would have caught me if I fell.” 

“Maybe,” Daphne said. “Or he could have missed, and you would have plummeted to your death.” 

“Thanks for that,” Hazel said dryly. “I guess at least last time I knew who was trying to do me in—this time I haven’t the foggiest.” 

“We know who,” Daphne said. “It was Snape. I told you, my father said not to trust him. You’re lucky Hermione here set him on fire when she did.” 

“You set Professor Snape on fire?” Hazel said. “And lived to tell the tale?” 

Hermione offered a small smile. “He didn’t know it was me. It actually took him a little while to realize he was on fire. I’m not sorry I did it, since it kept you safe.” 

“How do you know it was the professor?” 

“He was muttering under his breath and kept his eyes on you the whole time. I know a curse when I see one, Hazel—I’ve read all about them.” 

It was possible—Snape was a dark, odd man. If Hermione had accused any other professor, then she would have been less inclined to believe it, but with Snape, anything was possible. While he was…tolerant…of her, he was still a bully, and everyone knew he was fascinated by the Dark Arts. She didn’t want to believe it of the man or anyone else, but Hermione would not lie, nor would Daphne. If they said they saw Snape cursing her, then that was what happened. 

“So what do we do?” Hazel said. “Tell Dumbledore?” 

“Not a good idea,” Daphne said. “All we have is mine and Hermione’s word, and telling someone would let them know who set the great git on fire. All I know is we need to keep an eye on him, and you away from him.” 

“Oh no!” Hazel said. “What if he only let me on the Quidditch team so he could try this?” 

Hermione scoffed. “Really, Hazel. Someone tries to kill you and you’re worried if you deserve your place on the Quidditch team.” 

Hazel grinned—as usual, Hermione was right. She needed to sort her priorities out. Quidditch might be important to her, but her life should be of far greater concern. Snape was a threat, one she should be wary of; he was a fully trained wizard with a background in the Dark Arts and could certainly hurt her in a variety of ways that didn’t bear thinking about. He might not be able to make it look like a freak Quidditch accident anymore, but he could kill her another way. 

“I guess I’ll just have to watch my back then,” she said. 

“And we’ll help you,” Daphne added. “We can all die together.” 

Hazel only smiled. 

*HP* 

Christmas was fast approaching. The snowstorms were growing more frequent now, as were snowball fights on the grounds; one could scarcely make it to class without being pelted by the Weasley twins. Even poor Professor Quirrell had not been spared from their antics. One of the twins had hit him in the back of the turban. The normally timid man had turned irate and awarded them both detention for a week with Filch. 

For once, Hazel was feeling the jolly spirit of the season. She fancied that she had rather more to look forward to a paperclip, a pair of old socks, and some table scraps. She didn’t expect any gifts herself but had used Hedwig to owl-order some for Hermione and Daphne, delighted to have someone to give presents to for the first time. She had bought Hermione a book on wizarding customs and Daphne a handsome eagle-feather, self-inking quill. Though she didn’t know anything about gift giving, she suspected that they would appreciate the gesture. 

Both girls were going home for Christmas. Hermione knew her relatives disliked her so didn’t question it when Hazel opted to stay at Hogwarts for the break. Daphne had merely said that next year, she would invite her to stay at Fairfield Place, the Greengrass family estate. Hazel’s heart had lifted at the prospect that she might one day have the chance to spend Christmas with someone who actually liked her. 

The two girls had, however, warned her to stay close to Adrian, the only other Slytherin staying at Hogwarts for Christmas. His parents were curse-breakers who were out of the country for Christmas, investigating an ancient tomb in Israel charmed only to open on Christmas day. It was rumored to hold hereto undiscovered scrolls of the Bible. When she had questioned Pucey about it, he said many wizards were also Christians, and many curse-breakers were obsessed with finding more ancient Christian scrolls. 

Christmas would be a perfect time for Snape to strike. She would be quite vulnerable without the protection companions provided. Hermione and Daphne were reluctant to leave her in Snape’s potentially murderous hands. One of them had stayed with her constantly since the broom incident, so that Snape would not find her alone and be tempted to try something. 

As much as she would miss her friends, she was looking forward to a Malfoy-free holiday. Malfoy was back to taunting her again, though he had refrained from bullying other students. His main insults were directed at her having no proper family, but Hazel found she didn’t mind so much now that she had friends. Daphne had managed to cast a Color Change Charm on Malfoy’s hair, turning it a lurid pink. While part of her still ached for her parents, and always would, she found the pain and loneliness abating with each passing day. She was finding that having friends helped fill the void. 

Once the holidays started and everyone else had gone home, Hazel found herself bored. Adrian was good enough company, but he hadn’t shared in all that she had experienced. He didn’t know about their suspicions about Snape, but he knew it wasn’t safe for her to wander the halls alone. After all, she had been attacked by Gryffindors in the halls. He knew his company protected her, but not from whom. 

He taught her some new hexes (he was particularly fond of the Bat-Bogey Hex, which Hazel had never seen before). He had demonstrated it on an unsuspecting Percy Weasley, who had threatened to report them to Professor McGonagall for lurking outside the Restricted Section of the library. But only so much fun could be had tormenting errant prefects, and it was a dangerous game to play. If they were caught, they were likely to have a week’s worth of detention doing something nasty or tedious. 

When Christmas Eve came, Hazel went to bed with thoughts of food and fun. She did not expect any presents—she had never received more than a pair of old socks in her life. When she woke in the morning and made her way up the stairs, she found Adrian waiting for her by the large Christmas tree. He was still wearing his pajamas and was tousled-hair. 

“It’s about time you woke up!” he said, grinning. “I was about to start without you!” 

“Start without me? I got presents?” 

Adrian frowned. “Why wouldn’t you get presents?” 

Hazel shrugged and sat down beside the small pile labeled _Hazel Potter_. “No reason, I guess.” She liked Adrian, but she wasn’t about to confess that she had rotten Muggle guardians to the boy, not when she hadn’t even told Hermione and Daphne. 

Hazel picked up the parcel on top of the others. The thick brown paper and large, untidy scrawl immediately told her it was a gift from Hagrid. She opened it to find a roughly cut wooden flute she suspected Hagrid had whittled himself. With Adrian watching eagerly, she blew on it—it sounded a bit like an owl. 

Under Hagrid’s parcel was a second, tiny present wrapped in newspaper. Puzzled, she tore it open to find a folded note and a fifty-pence piece. She unfolded the note. _We received your message and enclose your Christmas present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia._

“What on earth is that?” Pucey said, reaching for the fifty-pence piece. 

“Muggle money,” she said. “I’m a, er, collector of sorts,” she lied. 

“Weird,” he said. “To each his own, I guess. My mum and dad dig up long-dead wizards for a living, so who’s to say you can’t enjoy Muggle money? Just don’t go letting Malfoy know—you’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“That’s the truth,” she said, watching Adrian as he opened a few of his own packages. He had received a new set of silk pajamas from his parents along with a book on defensive magic. 

Hazel looked down—she had four packages left. She reached for the largest one, which was wrapped in white paper covered in silver snowflakes that twinkled in the dim light. _To Hazel, from Daphne._ Excited to see what her friend had bought her, she tore the package open. 

Long, green robes fell out of the torn package. Hazel gasped—they were beautiful. She stood up, holding them up to herself. Silver detailing gleamed in the light. She felt guilty—they must have been terribly expensive, and Hazel had only gotten Daphne a nice quill. The robes were a thoughtful gift too—Hazel was one of the few students to wear her school robes on the weekend, having nothing else decent to wear. 

After draping the robes over one of the leather armchairs, she picked up the next parcel, which was distinctly book-shaped. Hermione was the giver, of course. She opened it to find a copy of _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts._ Hazel flipped through the book, perplexed as to why Hermione had given it to her. 

“You’re in that book, you know,” Adrian said, answering the unasked question. “Last year’s Defense professor was a real nutter for history—made us read the whole thing. There’s some fascinating stuff in there, though. Like that Russian bloke who sacrificed goats, thinking it would summon a lost spirit back.” 

“What’s with people doing unspeakable things to goats? Malfoy said Dumbledore’s brother was arrested for that too,” Hazel said. 

“Dunno,” Adrian said. “Mum once tried to tell me about the history of goat charms and their roles in ancient civilizations. I zoned out after the Egyptians.” 

“I think I would too,” Hazel said with a laugh, reaching for her next parcel. 

She grabbed the smaller of the two remaining packages, which was thin and flat and flimsy. Carefully, she pulled the black wrapping paper off. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw what it contained—it was an old Muggle photograph of a girl who looked rather like herself on a swing, smiling coyly at the photographer. Her mum. She had never seen a picture of either of her parents before. She turned it over on the back, hoping for some sign as to who sent it, but found nothing. 

Adrian looked over her shoulder. “Wow, you look just like her.” 

“Yeah, I do,” she said. 

“Except for the eyes. Hers are really green. I like yours better, I think.” 

“Thanks,” Hazel said with a smile, stowing the picture in her pocket. She didn’t want to risk losing it in the mess of paper. While Daphne’s robes were spectacular, the picture was nothing short of precious. It was worn down from handling—whoever had owned it before had obviously looked at it with some frequency. It was precious to them, just as it now was to Hazel. 

She watched Adrian open a few more of his presents, the best of which was a Nimbus Two Thousand, not that it was any surprise it was a broomstick. There was no way to effectively disguise a broomstick—a gigantic box was a dead-giveaway as much as an oddly shaped package. Adrian promised to let her take it for a spin later that day, despite the snow. 

Now there was only one parcel left. Hazel picked it up—it was exceptionally light for a package of its size. She unwrapped it. 

Something fluid and silvery gray slithered through her hands to the floor, where it lay in gleaming folds. 

“Wow,” Adrian said. “Put it on—I think that’s an invisibility cloak!” 

Hazel picked up the shining, silvery cloth and threw it over her shoulders. She gasped—she was invisible! She spun around, looking at her feet, which were gone. She stuck her toes outside the cloak’s confinement—they slid back into existence. It was rather disorienting, looking down and seeing nothing but her toes. 

Adrian kneeled down beside her and picked up a piece of paper which had fallen out of the cloak when she put it on. He unfolded it with a frown. “Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well. A very merry Christmas to you,” he read. “Weird. You’d think whoever sent it would say who they were—it is a rather valuable and sentimental thing for you.” 

Hazel nodded, pulling the cloak closer to her. It had been her father’s. He had worn this very same cloak, disappeared under it. The picture was precious to her, and this cloak in the same way. Both represented a connection to her parents she had long sought. Part of her wanted to disappear into her dormitory under her cloak and spend the rest of Christmas staring at the picture of her mother, thinking about what her parents might have been like. It was a hobby of hers at Privet Drive—she had spent hours upon hours locked away in her cupboard, thinking of them. She had always imagined a woman with a kind face and a man with a mischievous smile—she didn’t know how much was memory and how much was imagined, but those thoughts had gotten her through the long, harsh days at the Dursleys. 

*HP* 

Their trip to the Quidditch pitch later that day was ill-fated. Professor Snape had spotted them from the castle and stormed down the sloping lawns to find Hazel hurtling towards the ground on at a right angle on a Nimbus Two Thousand, before pulling out of it at the last moment; it was the exact move she had wanted to try to fool Towler with. Adrian was impressed; Professor Snape was not. He had taken thirty points from Slytherin for their “foolish antics in this blasted snow” and assigned Hazel a detention for dangerous flying—to be served that evening, no less. Adrian had cursed him under his breath, calling him the dungeon bat as so many Gryffindors did. Hazel rather agreed, giving a detention on Christmas day. 

She had half a mind to just not show up; if Professor Snape had tried to kill her during the Quidditch match, he would surely try again while he had her alone. All her efforts at not being alone over the break were for naught, having earned a detention with the very man she had sought to avoid contact with. It would be so easy to hide, with her new invisibility cloak, but she had to resurface some time, and didn’t fancy facing Snape’s anger if she skipped a detention—if she thought he would kill her now, he certainly would then. 

But that was to be dealt with after Christmas dinner. He had instructed her to come to his office no later eight o’clock, and dinner was served at six. 

Hazel had never had such a wonderful meal in her life. Hogwarts food was always spectacular, but the cooks had certainly outdone themselves for Christmas. The fattest turkey Hazel had ever seen sat in the center of the table; it had to be the Hagrid of turkeys. Ron eyed it hungrily from across the table. There were mountains of roast and potatoes, boats of thick, rich gravy and cranberry sauce. And the table was stacked with wizard crackers, nothing like the feeble Muggle ones the Dursleys had. Dumbledore had pulled one with Flitwick, and replaced his wizard’s hat with a flowered bonnet, chuckling merrily. 

When the flaming Christmas puddings came out, Hazel had to suppress a laugh when Percy nearly broke his teeth on a silver sickle hidden in his slice. Hagrid, being a merry drunk, kissed Professor McGonagall on the cheek. Hazel rather thought Professor McGonagall must have had too much wine too, as blushed and giggled, her top hat askew. 

The only people who did not seem to be enjoying themselves were Snape and Professor Quirrell. Snape kept glaring at the antsy man, who was trying very hard to look anywhere but at Snape. When he was not looking at Quirrell, Snape was glaring at Hazel. She hadn’t noticed until Adrian elbowed her and said, “Look at him. It’s as if he thinks you asked for detention.” 

“Happy Christmas to me,” Hazel said. 

“Excuse me?” Professor McGonagall said, her accent thicker than normal. “What’s this about Severus giving you detention?” 

“I was ‘flying like a fool,’” she said glumly. “And I could have seriously injured myself.” 

Professor McGonagall snorted. “A detention on Christmas Day for flying, of all things. Really now, Severus, surely you could let the poor girl off. It is Christmas after all, and she was only flying. I saw her from my window.” 

Snape sneered. “It is not up to you, how I discipline my students. Someone needs to teach Miss Potter a sense of self-preservation, particularly while flying. She sorely lacks the common sense to know what maneuvers she should not attempt.” 

“It wasn’t an attempt,” Hazel said. “I did it. I did it just fine, and I wasn’t hurt.” 

Professor McGonagall frowned. “What maneuver did you do, my dear?” 

“A Wronski Feint. I read about it in _Quidditch Through the Ages._ ” 

“I applaud your daring, Miss Potter, but Severus is right. That’s not a maneuver you should be using as a first year, especially without supervision. I remember my time on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team…” 

Hazel scowled, no longer listening to McGonagall’s reminiscence. She had done in just fine, and Adrian was there. If something had happened, he would have gone to get help. And she wasn’t going to crash—flying was one of the few skills she had that she was confident in. It was all well, doing Sloth Grip Rolls and Spiral Dives, but she wasn’t going to be the best she could be unless she really pushed herself. 

When Snape got up from the table, she took that as her cue to leave as well. She checked her wristwatch—it as nearly eight o’clock. It wouldn’t do to be late for detention, after all. 

*HP* 

Severus had been sitting at his desk no more than thirty seconds when he heard a knock on his door. The girl must have followed him from the Great Hall. The vindictive part of him wished she hadn’t, that she had showed up late for detention so he could give her another one. The girl had no sense of self-preservation, flying like that—she could have seriously injured herself. He scowled at the thought, and called for the girl to enter. She opened the door slowly. 

The girl was pale, a stark contrast to her flaming red hair. She was shaking too. His frown deepened—there was no reason for her to be afraid. He was strict with her, but he had never been cruel to her as he had so many of her classmates. Both times he had awarded her detention had been for lack of regard for her own safety, rather than misbehavior, per se. In his own way, he was trying to protect her, and the foolish girl should realize that. 

He slipped into her mind, hating looking into those hazel eyes he so despised seeing on Lily’s face. Flashes of memory assailed him. She was being pushed down the stairs by a plump blond boy, having her hair pulled by him, being locked in a small cupboard by a man with a walrus mustache. She was being sorted, begging the hat to put her in Gryffindor; she was being cornered in the hall by the gang of Gryffindor boys; she was laughing with Greengrass and Granger. And then there it was, the Greengrass girl’s words—“It was Snape. I told you, my father said not to trust him.” 

Indignation roared within him, images of the girl’s childhood forgotten. Greengrass’s father was the Auror who had arrested him all those years ago after finding him loitering in Godric’s Hollow. Originally it had been on suspicion of being involved with the attack on the Potters, but once they found the Dark Mark, it had been for a litany of crimes they supposed he had committed. In truth, he had only brewed some nasty potions for the Dark Lord, including the Drink of Despair. While that was a crime in and of itself, he was not the murderer, rapist, and torturer they accused him of being. Greengrass had locked him away in Azkaban, where he sat with nothing but his worst memories for company while Dumbledore arranged a trial. He had ultimately been cleared, but spending the month following Lily’s death in Azkaban had nearly driven him mad. 

And the girl thinking the worst of him—he had done nothing but his best to protect the little chit since she had entered Hogwarts, and here she thought he was the one trying to kill her. The vindictive part of him reared its head again—he ought to show her precisely how scary he could be, show her the cruelty he had refrained from directing at her thus far. But the part of him that was softer, the part of him Lily had nurtured, told him to talk the girl through it, to show her that she was wrong. 

“Miss Potter,” he said. “Please sit down.” 

The girl’s face blanked. It was almost comical to him. It was as if she expected him to draw her wand and curse her into oblivion at any moment. She slowly, hesitantly made her way to the chair that sat across from his desk. She sat down on it and looked at him with wide, fearful eyes. 

“Yes sir,” she whispered. 

“You will speak properly to me, Miss Potter. Refrain from whispering.” 

“Yes sir,” she said, louder this time. 

“It has come to my attention that you think I am the one who cursed your broom,” he said. 

“What?” the girl said. “What—I didn’t—how do you know?” 

“You were rather obvious about it, Miss Potter. You lack subtlety.” 

”Oh,” she said. “I take it that you weren’t the one who did it, since I’m still alive.” 

“A brilliant deduction,” he said dryly. “Take a point for Slytherin.” 

The girl giggled—giggled! How long had it been since anyone had laughed at something he said, not out of malice, but out of amusement? He cursed himself for preening like a stray cat shown a small bit of affection. The girl wasn’t his friend—she couldn’t be—and he cared just as little for her opinion of him as he did her peers'. He was only doing this so the little brat didn’t go and start a rumor that he was a murderous bastard and get him in trouble with the Board of Governors. 

“But who did, then?” the girl said. 

“I do not know. I have only suspicions that I will not be sharing with you.” 

“But what do I do now? I mean, Daphne and Hermione said to avoid you when we thought it was you, but it’s hard to avoid someone if you don’t know who they are.” 

“Quite right. I do believe that ensuring you are always in another’s company should be sufficient to deter most attackers. And believe me, Miss Potter, I will be keeping an eye on you as well.” 

“So no more Wronski Feints unless I want detention?” she said, grinning. 

“Indeed. As I said, Miss Potter. I will be keeping an eye on you for your own safety, and I will not turn a blind eye to antics which endanger yourself or others.” 

“Yes sir,” she said. 

“Now leave me be. It is Christmas—I believe you and Mister Pucey can find something better do than annoy me.” 

“Yes sir,” she said again, a grin gracing her face. She stood up from the chair and rushed towards the door. When she pulled it open, she turned around and smiled at him. “Happy Christmas, Professor.” 

When she was gone, Severus looked up and whispered, “Happy Christmas, Hazel.” Then he returned to marking the end of the term tests, furiously penning biting criticism in red ink.


	6. Chapter 6

Hazel returned to her dormitory in a pensive mood. She was glad Adrian had already gone to bed—it gave her time to think. She laid propped up on her pillows, picture of her mother in hand, invisibility cloak beside her. Never had she felt so close to her parents; it had been a long time since she felt their absence so keenly. This had certainly been an odd Christmas, but the best one she could remember, despite having detention. It was not the presents, but the feeling of loving and being loved. 

But then there was Professor Snape. She still didn’t know what to make of the man. Just a few hours earlier, she had believed him capable of murder; she now saw that was perhaps unfair. He didn’t seem to like her very much, but then, he didn’t seem to like anyone at all. He was, at least, not openly cruel to her as he was so many others. She thought she might even be able to like him if he wasn’t such a bully to poor souls like Neville. 

The more she thought about it, the more thoughtless thinking Professor Snape was the culprit seemed. If he wanted her dead, there had been plenty of opportunities for him to act. If he wanted her dead, he wouldn’t get so worked up about her endangering herself. If he wanted her dead, she probably already would be. 

A voice very much like Daphne’s told her that of course he would deny being the culprit—he was hardly going to confess. They had seen him muttering under his breath, maintaining eye contact with her broom. And the curse had failed when Hermione set him on fire. All of it logically pointed to Professor Snape. 

But Hazel wasn’t the most logical person; she trusted her instincts, and they were screaming that Hermione and Daphne had somehow gotten it wrong. Being a bit creepy and dark didn’t mean he was a murderer. And he had been…decent…to her where he was cruel to others. He didn’t have to put her on the Quidditch team. More, he was the first adult to ever show an interest in her safety. She didn’t exactly trust him, but she didn’t distrust him either, even if he wouldn’t share his suspicions as to who was trying to kill her. 

She had to know who had tried to throw her off her broom, and how. That meant researching curses, which meant the Restricted Section. 

She slipped under her father’s invisibility cloak. She thought about waking Adrian, taking him with her for protection; he would think it a grand adventure. But she was no coward—the cloak would provide her with all the protection she needed, and it felt right, undertaking her first bout of rule-breaking under the cloak alone. She took light steps across the dormitory, into the common room, and out the door. 

It was exhilarating, breaking rules. 

She walked as fast as she dared in the dark, knowing better than to light her wand. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she cast the Wand-Lighting Charm under her cloak, if it would be visible to only her or if her cloak would emanate a strange glow. Now wasn’t the time to find out, not when Mrs. Norris or Filch might be about. She doubted Christmas would keep them from prowling the halls. 

Soon enough, she arrived at the library. The familiar room looked different in the dark—no torches were lit, no students fretted over open books. The bookcases loomed over her; they were not the holders of friends and knowledge as they were in daylight, but a menacing barrier that obstructed her view. She pulled the cloak closer to her and made her way to the back of the library. 

She stepped carefully over the rope separating the Restricted Section from the rest of the library. She made her way towards the books of curses, squinting her eyes to read the titles in the dark. The titles didn’t tell her much; the faded gold letterings spoke in pretentious generalities and foreign tongues. She slipped her hand outside the cloak, running her hand over the spines of the books, skipping over the one with a stain that look horribly like blood. 

A faint whispering echoed through the room. She walked forward, looking for the source. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Now she knew what those who spoke of feeling magic meant; all these books were alive with something, something dark and fascinating. 

She found the culprit on the bottom row. It was an ancient tome of black leather, with silver lettering on the side. She pulled it out with some difficultly—it was quite large and heavy—and rested it on her knee. _The Darke Magicks_. With a pounding heart, she opened the book. 

A piercing, bloodcurdling shriek split the silence—the book, it was screaming! She snapped the book shut, but the scream echoed and echoed in the silence of the night. Then there were footsteps, sounding just outside the library door. With no small amount of panic—Professor Snape would have her in detention for years—she jammed the book back onto the shelf and ran for it. She passed Filch in the doorway, the man’s wild eyes looking straight through her. She slipped under his outstretched arm and ran down the corridor, the book’s scream still ringing in her ears. 

What kind of book screamed? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. 

She came to a stop in front of a suit of armor. She had no idea where she was—she had only been focused on getting away. Out of breath, she slumped against the wall. That had been a close call, and her night wasn’t over yet. She still had to find her way to the dungeons, which had to be at least six floors below her. 

“You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone was wandering around at night, and somebody’s been in the library—Restricted Section.” 

The blood drained from Hazel’s face. Filch must have known a shortcut to where she was, and somehow guessed where she was going, even though she hadn’t known herself. His soft, greasy voice was getting nearer. 

And to her horror, it was Professor Snape who replied, “The Restricted Section? Well, they can’t be far, we’ll catch them.” 

Professor Snape and Filch rounded the corner. She stayed very still, praying they wouldn’t come any closer. If they moved even another meter, they would run into her. The cloak wouldn’t save her then. 

She took one step away from them, then another, as silently as she could. She could have shouted with joy when she reached the door of an empty classroom without them noticing anything. Squeezing through the open door, she let out a sigh of relief. That had been close, very close. 

She looked around the classroom. There was nothing particularly special about it. It was neglected in its disuse, covered in dust, filled with desks and chairs, which were pushed to the walls. She stepped over an upturned wastepaper basket, towards what had caught her eye. It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, looking very out of place. At the top was an inscription that read: _Erised stra ehru oy tube cafru oyt on wohsi._

Curiosity replaced the panic she had felt, now that she was safely away from Filch and Professor Snape. She moved closer to the mirror, her cloak slipping down her shoulders, parting to reveal her worn pajamas underneath. She looked into the mirror, her heart founding furiously, because she saw not herself reflected there, but a crowd of people and a very familiar face. 

She reached forward and touched the mirror. The red-headed woman was smiling at her, tears in her eyes. She reached forward to touch the mirror as well. She looked just like Hazel, only with the greenest eyes she had ever seen. “Mum,” she whispered. The man in the reflection touched her shoulder. He had dark, messy hair and hazel eyes, just like hers, that twinkled with mischief. “Dad,” she said. He nodded, beaming at her. 

They just kept smiling at her. 

She looked into the other faces in the mirror. She saw other sets of hazel eyes, a woman with dark flames of red hair just like hers and her mum’s. A bald old man waved merrily at her—another did a sort of a jig. Hazel couldn’t help but smile, for all that she was crying. This was her family. How could she not smile, when they were smiling at her? But how could she not cry, seeing all that she had lost? 

The Potter-Evans family smiled and waved and she stared back at them, eager to see more. She would have been quite happy to stand there forever, hand pressed against the glass as if she could touch them, feel them, make them real. There was a powerful ache inside her, half joy, half terrible sadness. 

She didn’t know how long she had been there, but daylight was peeking through the small window behind her. The mirror did not reflect the light. She knew she couldn’t stay—if Professor Snape checked on her and Adrian that morning, as he sometimes had over the holiday, the game would be up. He would know who had been out of bed, and she would be in a world of trouble. She tore her eyes from her mother’s beautiful, tearful face and whispered, “I’ll come back.” 

*HP* 

“Back again, Severus?” 

Dumbledore walked into the room with a weariness Severus had not seen in the man since the war. His head was bowed and his eyes devoid of their usual twinkle. He sat down on a dusty desk and said, “You do not need me to tell you what this mirror is.” 

Severus, not moving his eyes from the mirror, whispered, “I know.” 

“Then why are you here, my boy? This mirror gives us neither knowledge or truth, only pain and wanting.” 

“I know,” he repeated dully. “It’s not as if what I want could ever happen.” 

“You see Lily?” 

Severus didn’t answer. 

“You are not the only one I have had to confront this week,” he said gently. “Miss Potter has taken a certain liking to the mirror as well.” 

“What?” he said, still looking into the mirror. “That foolish girl…” 

“She came here, desperate for a glimpse of the family she never knew. I find that I cannot fault her for that—not at the inconsiderable age of eleven. But you, my boy? You ought to know the havoc this sort of magic wreaks.” 

“I know,” he said again. 

“Yet we cannot always do what is right. I am moving the mirror today, Severus. I ask you do not go looking for it again. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Why don’t you come to my office? We can discuss Quirrell.” 

“I’d rather not,” he said. 

Dumbledore sighed and smiled a sad smile before leaving the room, leaving him to his last precious moments with the mirror. 

He looked into the mirror, a tear trickling down his face. The Severus reflected there was not himself. Reflected there was the boy he had been. He looked just as he remembered, dirty-haired and wearing ragged, ill-fitting clothes. Only he was smiling, something he had seldom done as a boy. What reason had there been to smile, when all he had to look forward to was his mother’s neglect and his father’s fists? What reason was there to smile, but the girl standing beside him? 

It was Lily, of course, young and whole. She held boy-Severus’s hand and smiled at him, waving to the Severus with her free hand. She was smiling that coy smile of hers, the one that drew people in, the one he had longed to see directed at him again for so many years. The boy-Severus said something, a wry smile on his face, and she tossed her head back and laughed, red-hair blowing in a gentle breeze. 

If only he could be a child again with her, he would gladly live through all the pain and suffering that his parents had inflicted upon him. If only he could be a child again, he would not make all the foolish decisions he had. If only he could be a child again, he would not have chosen a futile quest for power and revenge over his only and best friend. If only, if only. He had lost so much, only to gain nothing, and it was all by his own hand. 

With shuddering shoulders, he turned his back on the mirror. He composed himself into his usual stony-faced demeanor. This mirror could destroy him, if he let it. Part of him wanted to let it do its magic, let it destroy him. There was no hope for his heart’s desire, yet it gave him a cruel, cruel glimpse of it. He did not need to wonder if it could happen. He did not need to wonder what his failing was, why he could not achieve his dream. He already knew. 

He didn’t deserve her anyway. 

He walked away, head bowed.


	7. Chapter 7

Hazel did as Dumbledore asked—she did not go looking for the mirror again. For the rest of Christmas, the invisibility cloak stayed tucked safely away in her trunk. She had to admit, that for all she had been happy to see her parents, it had messed with her mind. There had been multiple nights where she awoke in a cold sweat after having a dream where her mum and dad collapsed to the floor, dead in a flash of green light. 

Hermione and Daphne met Hazel in the library the day before term started, just after they returned. The three girls had not arranged it, but instinctively knew to wait for each other there. It wasn’t as if it was a difficult thing to know—they seldom met anywhere else. It was a testament to just how eager the girls were to see each other that all three headed there as soon as the students all returned from break. 

“My father knew all about Nicolas Flamel,” Daphne said, practically bursting to share. “Said he was the only known maker of the Sorcerer’s Stone—we, of course, know all about it, thanks to that ridiculous book you found, Hermione. I swear it listed everything magical thing in existence smaller than a breadbox.” 

“So we don’t need to look through any more books for him,” Hermione said. 

“I swear you’re a nutter, Hermione. You actually sound disappointed. Now we know, and now we can start doing things for fun, like—” 

“Looking through those books was fun!” Hermione protested. 

“All right, you guys,” Hazel said with a laugh. “Differing definitions of fun aside, we know who Nicolas Flamel is now, and what that package is.” 

“But why does it matter?” Daphne said. 

“Because someone might try to steal it,” Hazel said. “We should go and investigate the third-floor corridor, see what protections they have on it.” 

“The corridor that guarantees dying a painful death?” Daphne said. “No thank you. I’m sure Dumbledore knows what he’s doing, protecting something that important.” 

“Just like a student would never almost die,” Hazel muttered. “Come on, you guys. It wouldn’t hurt just to take a peek—we can be really careful.” 

“Hazel, I don’t like the sound of this. Professor Snape was really hurt when we found him outside the corridor. Besides, we’ll get caught and be in loads of trouble,” Hermione said. 

Hazel told them about the invisibility cloak and her nighttime wanderings. Hermione covered her face with her hands, unwilling to believe she had been caught by the headmaster and received no punishment. Daphne only grinned at the thought of Hazel leading the wheezy Filch on a wild chase. They had both gasped when she told them about the mirror—Hermione was fascinated by the complexity of the magic, and Daphne wondered what the mirror would show her. Hazel told them that the mirror wasn’t so wonderful, that it had made her more sad than happy or knowledgeable, but omitted the part about her recurring nightmares. 

But only when Hazel said she was going to the corridor with or without them did they agree to come. Hermione did so despairing how many points they would lose and Daphne did so with a roll of her eyes. 

“If you get me killed,” Daphne said. “I’m coming back from the dead just to kill you.” 

Hazel and Daphne snuck up to Gryffindor Tower later that night—that way they didn’t risk Hermione getting caught. To the Fat Lady’s consternation, Hermione came bursting out of the portrait hole around midnight, flustered. “I’ve only just managed to get away—Lavender kept trying to get me to let her braid my hair, all while insulting me! As if I didn’t have better things to do!” 

“Like sleep,” Daphne said. 

“Shut it,” Hazel said. “We’ll all be back in bed soon enough. Quick, Hermione, get under the cloak.” 

It was quite tight with the three of them under one cloak, but they managed. Hermione stepped on Daphne’s toes and Hazel could scarcely see, as both Daphne and Hermione were much taller than her and she was stuck behind them. They moved slowly, painfully, but they eventually reached the third-floor corridor. They paused for a moment outside the door, looking around to make sure there was no one to witness them going through the door. 

Daphne pushed the door open and led them down the corridor. Hermione lit her wand. Hazel trudged on behind them, standing on her toes, trying to look over their shoulders and see what was so special about this corridor, that Dumbledore had warned them all away from it. She already knew that it likely hid the Sorcerer’s Stone, but why here? What protections did he place on it, that could kill a student? 

At the end of the corridor was a locked door. Daphne pulled on it and turned around with a shrug. Hazel took a step back to look at the bigger girl, pulling the cloak up from her ankles. Daphne shrugged. “It’s locked,” she said. “Best we head back now, before we get caught.” 

“Honestly,” Hermione said. “Are you a witch or not? _Alohomora_.” 

The door’s lock clicked. 

The three girls stepped inside. 

A formless black mass lay across the floor. The sound of soft breathing filled the room. The creature stirred in its sleep, sniffing the air. Hazel squeezed between Daphne and Hermione, curious to see what the creature was. She gasped when she caught sight of it properly—a giant, three-headed dog! 

“Let’s get out of here,” Daphne murmured. “That’s a cerberus, and I don’t fancy waking him.” 

“That’s all?” Hazel whispered. “A three-headed dog, protecting one of the most powerful artifacts of all time?” 

“That’s all?” Daphne said, her voice cracking. “It’s a cerberus, Hazel!” 

“I know, but isn’t that a little…well, inadequate?” 

“It’s standing on a trapdoor,” Hermione said. “I doubt that’s all. Come on now, Hazel. We don’t want to wake it up.” 

“No, we don’t,” Daphne said. “Let’s go.” 

“Alright,” Hazel said, stifling a laugh. She turned to open the door, but found it locked. 

“ _Alohomora_ ,” she tried. 

No lock clicked. 

“Hermione?” 

Hermione tried. 

No lock clicked. 

“Brilliant,” Daphne said. “Just brilliant. We’re stuck here with a murderous cerberus until someone finds us. That is, if they ever find us—that thing could eat us in one bite!” 

“Let’s just stay under the cloak. If it doesn’t see us, we’ll be fine.” 

“It’s a dog,” Hermione said. “Or something like it. It can smell us.” 

“Let’s just stay calm,” said Hazel. “We don’t know if it’ll even wakeup anytime soon.” 

The dog snorted in its sleep. 

*HP* 

There was a knock on his door in the night, pulling him from his sleep. He ran a hand through his greasy hair and grabbed his wand from his nightstand. It was never a good thing when someone knocked on his door at three in the morning, be they a student or another member of staff. It always meant someone was having some sort of crisis, or a Slytherin had been caught out of bed. And it always meant someone was about to meet a very angry Severus Snape. 

Muttering to himself, he stormed out of his bedroom towards the door to his quarters, nearly tripping over a stack of books in the dark. He rubbed his bleary eyes, cursing whatever fool who had decided to wake him up at this ungodly hour. 

When he threw the door open, he found Dumbledore standing there yet again, his blue eyes sans twinkle. He looked quite serious for a man in a ridiculous, pink nightshirt. Then again, Severus couldn’t say much while wearing his own worn, grey one. 

“Quirrell is making his move,” he said. “I added protections to the corridor—he is presently locked in with Hagrid’s Fluffy.” 

“We’ll find him in pieces,” he said, following Dumbledore out the door. 

They moved swiftly through the deserted halls. Dumbledore was spry for his one-hundred years, taking the steps two at a time in his haste to reach the third-floor corridor. Snape trailed behind him, clutching his wand, hoping he would get a chance to hex the irritating Quirrell into oblivion and find out precisely why the man made his Dark Mark twinge. It was not every day he had the opportunity to curse someone with Dumbledore’s permission. 

When they reached the door to where the cerberus was being kept, Dumbledore drew his wand and opened the door, humming a waltz. Severus wondered if the old man had finally gone mad but said nothing. He hoped the cerberus was asleep—even with Dumbledore, he didn’t fancy facing the beast that had nearly killed him again. 

To his relief, the three-headed dog remained asleep. He released a breath he didn’t know he had been holding and looked around the room. No Quirrell. Tentatively, he moved towards the trapdoor; the beast had its paw on top of it. A quick Revealing Charm showed that the wards on the trapdoor were still intact—no one had gone through it, that he could tell. 

“Should we go on?” Severus asked the still-humming Dumbledore, who was gazing into the farthest corner of the room. 

“I think not,” he said, not moving his gaze. The twinkle was back in his eyes, and a smile touching the corners of his mouth. “I rather think that this was just a bout of innocent mischief making.” 

“Mischief making?” Severus said, incredulous. “You mean a student—then they’re still here!” 

“Oh, that they are,” Dumbledore said, clearly enjoying himself. “Miss Potter, Miss Greengrass, Miss Granger—if you could take off that admirable cloak. The gig is up, as the Muggles like to say.” 

And then the three white-faced girls appeared out of nowhere, Potter clutching a silvery cloak in her hands. 

Fury ignited in Severus’s chest. How dare they—how dare the girl do this! The blasted girl must have a death wish, coming here with her two friends. He had told her to be careful, that someone was trying to kill her, and she goes the one place in the castle she had been warned not to go. And worse, after his promise to keep watch over her, he had been none the wiser—she had made him and his promise look foolish. 

“Miss Potter,” he hissed. He had eyes only for the girl cowering in the corner. 

“Severus,” Dumbledore said, clearing his throat. “Perhaps this is a discussion best had in your office. We are, after all, in the company of a creature even more cantankerous than yourself.” 

“Fine,” Severus snarled, stalking across the room, grabbing Potter by the top of her robes. He pulled her towards the door, her two friends following faithfully behind. 

“I’ll leave this in your capable hands, Severus,” Dumbledore said before striding out the door, smile still on his face. 

When they reached his office, his temper had not improved—it had only worsened. The girl could have died. Of all the foolish things! She had not been a troublemaker thus far—he had thought her nothing like her father—but this was such a Potter thing to do. This was the height of idiocy, and he had expected better of the girl. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have. She was a Potter after all. 

He stormed across the room to the corner where the girl stood, pale-faced and shaking. He didn’t know if it was from him or the cerberus. He didn’t care. He leaned forward, towering over the diminutive girl. He had eyes only for her, not caring about Granger and Greengrass. It was the girl’s cloak, he was sure—how many times had James Potter ambushed him from under it—and therefore this was her fault. Granger was too much of a stickler for rules, and Greengrass had a sense of self-preservation—this hare-brained scheme smacked of Potter. 

“Which of you fools,” he snarled. “Had the brilliant idea to go into that corridor?” 

Greengrass and Granger exchanged a look, while Potter looked at him defiantly. “It was my idea, sir. Daphne and Hermione tried to talk me out of it.” 

He took in a sharp breath of air. Lily would never have done something so stupid. Lily would be ashamed—oh, how he could hurt the girl, telling her that. But then he would have to reveal his secret to the girl, and that wouldn’t do. So he snarled the first thing that came to his mind. 

“How like your sainted father you are, Potter,” he said. “He too had no regard for the lives of others. He too was a fat-headed bully, arrogant, convinced of his own superiority. I had thought you better than that, but clearly I was wrong. You are nothing more than a stupid little girl, just as awful as your father before you.” 

Tears shone in those hated hazel eyes. He felt something like glee, tearing down James Potter’s daughter, seeing tears swim in those hateful hazel eyes, even if he had to hurt Lily’s daughter to do it. 

“I-I—” 

“You’re an insolent, worthless little brat,” he said, not finished. “I have no need to listen to your inane prattling and even less interest in your crocodile tears. Save your simpering apology for someone else, Potter, because I. Don’t. Care.” 

The tears were flowing down her face now. 

“One-hundred points from Slytherin and a month’s worth of detention with me, every night. Fifty more points from Slytherin for you, Greengrass, and fifty points from Gryffindor. Now get out my sight!” 

*HP* 

Hazel threw herself into the one thing left to her—Quidditch. Everyone else in Slytherin, except for Daphne, hated her. She was shocked Snape hadn’t taken her off the team. She was equally shocked the Quidditch team didn’t seem to mind her presence, unlike the rest of Slytherin House. They still defended her and helped her—Adrian had hexed Malfoy for saying it was too bad she hadn’t died with her parents. Everyone in Slytherin hated her and Daphne for losing so many points in one night, for a reason they wouldn’t explain. No one knew why they had gone into that corridor, only that they had. 

She was grateful her friends stood by her, at least. Hermione was quite upset as she had become even more of a pariah in Gryffindor, but she forgave Hazel. She said that’s what friends do. 

With the match against Hufflepuff fast approaching, they were practicing more and more. She had often trudged into her detentions with Professor Snape covered in mud and sweat. He had made snide remarks about her looking like she had come out of a pigsty, but at least he had refrained from insulting the father she had never known. She hated that she had cried in front him, but his words had been unexpected and cut deep. It hurt even more that he had started treating her as he did the Gryffindors, varying between icy indifference and cruel, biting sarcasm. 

The one adult she had in her corner, and she had thrown it away out of curiosity over something that wasn’t any of her business. 

She was only glad her month of detention was almost over. Then she wouldn’t have to see the man every day and be reminded of what she had lost. 

The day of the match, she walked down to the pitch with Hermione and Daphne. The three girls were even more inseparable since their run in with the three-headed dog. As it happened, Snape had written their parents. Daphne’s father had responded with a quiet aplomb, warning her she would be punished further at home if she pulled another stunt like this—Daphne said she was glad it was her father and not her mother who responded, as Mrs. Greengrass would have sent a Howler. Hermione’s parents had sent her a disappointed letter threatening to take her out of Hogwarts. Hazel wondered what the Dursleys had done—probably burned the letter on sight or expressed disappointment the three-headed dog hadn’t eaten her. 

“Good luck, Hazel!” Hermione said, giving her a hug. “I’ll be cheering for you.” 

“A Gryffindor cheering for a Slytherin,” Daphne said. “We are an odd bunch.” 

Hazel tossed her head back and laughed, before entering the locker room and changing into her robes. When she exited again, Flint clapped her on the back, causing her to lurch forward. 

“I don’t expect you’ll have a problem this match, Potter,” he said. “Professor Dumbledore is here, and Professor Snape is refereeing. No one will be able to curse your broom.” 

With all that had been on her mind, it had not even occurred to Hazel that her would-be murderer would try the same thing again. She had been too busy trying to keep up with her homework, Quidditch practices, and detentions. Whoever was trying to kill her would have to be really thick to try the same thing again, and even stupider to try it under Professor Dumbledore’s nose. 

When the game began, she soared high into the air, far above the Hufflepuff seeker, a handsome third year named Cedric Diggory. She did a few loop-the-loops to let off her nerves—everyone was watching her, wondering if last match’s drama would be repeated. 

Snape blew the whistle and awarded Slytherin a penalty when one of the bulky Hufflepuff Beaters hit a Bludger at him, which he only narrowly avoided. He didn’t look very at home on a broom. Hazel wondered why he was bothering to referee at all—while he had promised to keep an eye on her, she doubted he still cared anything for her after the incident with the cerberus. Perhaps he had arranged to be referee before she had made a mess of everything. 

A flash of gold pulled her from her recollections—it was the Snitch! Slytherin was already seventy points ahead, so she could catch the Snitch without any worries about losing the match. She raced forward towards the little, golden ball, determined to reach it before Diggory, who was trailing a little way behind her. She pitched her broom into a steep dive and pulled out of it, Snitch in hand. A smile split her face—she had caught the Snitch in less than five minutes. It was now fluttering weakly in her hand. She had earned back the points she and Daphne had lost on their ill-fated excursion. Snape blew his whistle again. 

When she landed back on the ground, Diggory offered her his hand, which she shook. “That was a good catch,” he said. “I don’t know if I could have managed it in such a dive, and I’ve certainly never caught the Snitch so early in a match.” He flashed her a winning smile. 

“Thanks, Diggory,” she said, blushing. 

“Cedric,” he said. 

“Cedric.” 

Dumbledore strolled across the field, his ostentatious, purple, star-spangled robes trailing through the mud behind him. His eyes twinkled and he was smiling at her. 

“Well done,” said Dumbledore, so quietly that only Hazel could hear. “Nice to see you haven’t been brooding about that mirror…been keeping busy…excellent… and no more adventures with Hagrid’s dear Fluffy…excellent indeed.” 

Snape landed on the ground, wobbling a bit as he found his footing. He looked at Hazel and opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but promptly shut it again. A small part of Hazel wanted to go and apologize to him, but she squashed that instinct. This was a time for celebration—apologies could wait. She mounted her broom and joined Flint in his celebratory lap before flying out of the stadium, towards the Forbidden Forest. 

*HP* 

“…d-don’t know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places, Severus…” 

Severus scowled at the timid man before him, his Dark Mark burning on his arm. This fool was connected to the Dark Lord, somehow. He took a menacing step forward, backing the quivering Quirrell into a tree. Quirrell shot a panicked glance over his shoulder, looking around wildly. 

“Yes, Quirrell,” Severus said with a nasty smile. “There are werewolves in this forest, even a coven of vampires somewhere deep within it. I’m sure I could arrange for you to meet them.” 

“No! I-I mean I d-don’t know why…thought we c-could have arranged some p-place b-b-better to meet,” he said. 

“Oh, I thought we’d keep this private,” said Severus. “Students aren’t supposed to know about the stone, after all. Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid’s yet? 

“B-b-but Severus, I—” 

“You don’t want me as your enemy Quirrell,” said Snape, taking another step toward him. They were so close they were nearly touching now. His Dark Mark was on fire. 

“I-I don’t know what you—” 

“You know perfectly well what I mean. Tell me about your little bit of hocus-pocus. I’m waiting.” A branch snapped somewhere above them, but neither man paid it any mind. 

“B-but I d-d-don’t—” 

“Very well. We’ll have another little chat soon, when you’ve had time to think things over and decide where your loyalties lie.” 

He turned his back on the fool, when he heard a hiss. “Sseveruss,” it said. He turned around, his face paling beyond its usual pallor. 

“I should say the same of you, Severus,” Quirrell said in a voice very unlike his usual quavering tones. 

“Let me ssee him,” the voice hissed again. 

“Master, no! You are not strong enough!” 

“I am sstrong enough to adresss a wayward sservant,” it whispered. 

And then with shaking hands, Quirrell began to unwrap his turban. Severus stood there, frozen in shock and horror, unable to look away. The Dark Lord couldn’t be here with Quirrell—he simply could not be. Dumbledore would have known. But then again, Quirrell had been to Albania this summer…where the Dark Lord was rumored to be. And Dumbledore, much as he liked to pretend to, did not know everything. 

He slammed his Occlumency shields in place, forcing himself to remain calm. If this was somehow the Dark Lord, as he felt was increasingly likely, then he would certainly die if he did not prepare himself. If only he had suspected, had been able to devise a plan with Dumbledore, he would know what to do! He had faith in his abilities as a natural improviser, but he feared ruining the bigger picture by revealing too much or too little. Everything he had told the Dark Lord during the war had been carefully selected, designed to make him seem the faithful spy while passing on nothing of import. 

For the first time in ten years, he found himself standing face to face with the Dark Lord. 

He averted his eyes from his former master. To look into the Dark Lord’s eyes without invitation was pure folly—the twisted man saw it as a challenge and could bring even Severus to his knees with the force he could put behind a mental invasion. No, even as little more than a shade, the Dark Lord’s eyes were dangerous. 

A wheezy laugh came from the back of Quirrell’s head. “I am terrible, am I not? Forced to subsist on the meager talents of this mediocre wizard. Yes, if only it had been you who had found me, Sseveruss. We could have done great things.” 

His heart pounded in terror—it was all he could do not to take a step back, turn around, and run. He had no desire to have the Dark Lord possess him. 

The Dark Lord laughed again. “You are safe, Severus. I am too weak to change hosts yet again. It took some doing to possess our dear friend Quirinus…he was most unwilling, at first. Now look at me, my wayward child.” 

Knowing better than to disobey, Severus looked straight into the milky white eyes of the Dark Lord. 

“Let your lord see where your loyalties lie,” he wheezed. 

Severus showed him the drudgery of working at Hogwarts—the endless papers, the dunderheaded students, the foolish pranks, the bullying. He showed the Dark Lord his recent cruelties to the Girl Who Lived. He showed him his endless arguments with Dumbledore, the frustrations he felt when the old man just twinkled at him and ignored his complaints. He kept everything else hidden behind a hastily constructed wall, one he knew would topple if the Dark Lord so much as looked at it— 

A grin broke out on the Dark Lord’s terrible face. “I’ll admit, Severus, I never valued as I should. Even Lord Voldemort makes mistakes. After all these years, you remain loyal to me, even close as you have been to that old fool.” 

“I knew better than to abandon my post, my lord,” he said. “You instructed me to stay at Hogwarts, so—” 

“Silence,” the Dark Lord said. “You forget yourself, Severus. You do not speak unless I invite you to.” 

Severus opened his mouth to reply “yes, my lord,” but thought better of it after being told to be silent. Instead he opted for an odd twitch that resembled a nod. 

“I should think that we will do great things, now that I have my most faithful servant back at my side. I can see the loyalty and determination it took to stay by the great mudblood lover’s side for a decade, my loyal servant, even if it distracted you from finding me and returning me to my former glory. I shall forgive you this sin, once you repent of it. Repent, Severus.” 

“You have my sincerest apologies, my lord.” 

The horrible grin returned. “Now Quirinus, let us show him what it means to repent.” 

Severus stiffened, knowing what was coming. Repentance to the Dark Lord was always accompanied by punishment. Quirrell turned around, gripping his wand tightly, manic gleam in his eyes. 

“I have longed for this opportunity, Severus. _Crucio_.” 

The force of the spell sent him tumbling to the ground. He resisted screaming, for a time, instead twitching on the ground as his body spasmed in pain. But it was too much. It was pain unlike he had felt in a decade, pain beyond endurance, and he was screaming, screaming— 

The Dark Lord only laughed. 

After what seemed an eternity, Quirrell ended the curse. His tongue was bleeding—he had bitten it while thrashing around on the ground. Blood pounded in his ears. He shook as the aftershocks of pain ran through his system. Slowly, haltingly, he pushed himself to his feet, determined not to give Quirrell the satisfaction of seeing him laying prostrate before him. He suffered because the Dark Lord commanded it, but would not allow Quirrell to have any further power over him. 

Quirrell turned back around, so that Severus was facing the Dark Lord once more. “Good, Severus,” he said. “Very good. Now, I have instructions for you. I see that you have no fondness for the Girl Who Lived. But you are her Head of House. She will naturally look to you for guidance…foster this connection, my most faithful, so that when the time is right, you may deliver her to me. That is your task. Quirinus and I shall continue to endeavor to get to the stone—it would not do for the old fool to suspect you are involved in the plot as well. Now tell me, Severus, what protections have you put on the stone?” 

“A logic puzzle you are more than equal to, my lord.” 

“Yes…you always were very clever. But cleverness can be outdone.” 

“Indeed, but we must use what talents we have,” Severus said. 

The Dark Lord laughed, a high and cold sound that raised bumps on the back of Severus’s neck. “Yes, but you are rather more talented than most. I’ll admit, I’m disappointed your protection was not something more…grand.” 

“The old man would not let me use any dark curses to protect the stone.” 

“I did not ask for your excuses.” 

Severus kept his eyes trained on the ground. Inviting the Dark Lord’s disappointment was never a good thing, even when he was in good humor; he would sometimes accept explanations, but more often saw them as excuses. He felt the Dark Lord’s milky eyes on him, contemplating what actions to take for his failings. He closed his eyes, silently praying that he would not be subjected the Cruciatus Curse yet again. 

“Yet I find myself tiring, Severus…I am but a shadow of what I was. With the stone, I shall construct myself a new body and be whole again. You have your task—disappoint me, and you shall feel Lord Voldemort’s wrath. Quirinus,” he said. 

With that command, Quirrell rewrapped his turban, covering the Dark Lord’s terrible face. Quirrell redonned his fearful façade and walked away, leaving Severus standing there, wondering just what it was he was supposed to do now.


	8. Chapter 8

“Are you sure you don’t wish to go to the hospital wing, my boy?” Dumbledore said. 

“And just how would we explain my exposure to the Cruciatus Curse?” he said. “Poppy may not ask too many questions, but she would know something is amiss. This must stay between the two of us,” Severus said. 

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said. “It is concerning that Tom has managed to go about his business undetected thus far—I’ll admit I had no inkling that he was at Hogwarts. It is most disconcerting.” 

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose—he had a thundering headache, and Dumbledore wasn’t helping matters. The crazy old man was merely acting as if a child had been caught somewhere he or she shouldn’t be. The one time he would have appreciated Dumbledore’s quasi-omniscience, the old man failed to deliver. Dumbledore had a knack for knowing things you didn’t want him to know, but apparently that talent was less than effective where the Dark Lord was concerned. 

“He wants me to get close to the Potter girl so that I can deliver her to him.” 

The twinkle left Dumbledore’s eyes briefly, then returned in full force. “And what do you think about that?” 

“I must do as my masters bid.” 

“I was under the impression that you found Hazel rather tolerable compared to most of your students.” 

He made a noncommittal sound in his throat. 

He looked out the window, the sky dark and the stars twinkling in the clear night. He could admit the girl had been tolerable, despite her foray into mischief-making in the most inconvenient place. She seemed genuinely contrite in her detentions and had accepted her punishment without protest. James Potter would have made excuses for being out of bounds and whined and whined about having detention. 

But that didn’t change the fact the girl had risked her own life and the lives of her friends for mere curiosity. She had no good reason for being where she was, other than the temptation Dumbledore had placed before her and the rest of the school by announcing the corridor dangerous. But wasn’t he intimately acquainted with risking his life for curiosity? Had he not gone down a secret passage into the Shrieking Shack all those years ago, in search of proof of his theory Remus Lupin was a werewolf? Could he really fault her for the crime of curiosity? 

"Severus,” Dumbledore said, looking over his glasses, fixing him with a piercing look. 

“The girl is not as insufferable as some,” he said. “But she should not have gone into that corridor.” 

“We must forgive people their misdeeds, especially children,” Dumbledore said. “She was merely curious, and surely curiosity is not a sin. Curiosity makes for delightful, engaging children.” 

“I have often told Minerva that curiosity killed the cat,” Severus said. “The girl could have died.” 

“But she did not. She was rather cool-headed in a crisis, wasn’t she? Surely you find that admirable.” 

“I find nothing about eleven-year-old children admirable, other than their capacity to annoy.” 

“If you say so, Severus.” 

“So what am I supposed to do?” 

“You can do what Tom asks. In fact, I would encourage you to befriend the girl as well, though not for Tom’s nefarious reasons. I would say the girl could rather benefit from the companionship of a trustworthy adult.” 

He scowled. “And I suppose I am the most convenient target?” 

Dumbledore smiled and said, “You are her head of house, as Minerva so often despairs.” 

If only the girl had been a Gryffindor—then he could hate her in peace. The house of lions would have made her into a brash thing, the bold hero they all expected her to be. As it was, she still had her moments brazenness. He could only imagine how bold she would be without the moderating influence of Slytherin House—certainly it would be to the point of being unpalatable. Without the exposure to her he received from being her head of house, he would certainly have thought her arrogant and fatheaded like her father, despite Lily’s looks. 

He knew she wasn’t like that, though. She simply had Lily’s insatiable curiosity with James Potter’s disregard for rules. She was like Lily too, standing up to bullies—she had shown that in her first weeks at Hogwarts, taking on Malfoy when he was making fun of the pathetic Longbottom boy. She had risked punishment to help a boy not there to witness her kindness, a boy who probably had not spared her a thought after she had donned a green tie. Lily would have done that too. And if he was being honest with himself, Lily probably would have cajoled him into investigating that corridor too—she was never one to resist even obvious temptation. He had wanted to attribute her insufferable, rule-breaking street to her bastard of a father, but the truth was Lily was no saint where following rules was concerned. 

So perhaps the girl was doomed regardless of who she took after. 

“Minerva can have her,” he said. “It had been years since I took so many points from my own house.” 

“Yes, that was rather excessive. I believe that Miss Potter has been ostracized within Slytherin as a result.” 

Guilt churned in his stomach. He didn’t mean to make the girl an outcast—he knew the suffering that brought all too well. While she was James Potter’s spawn, she was Lily’s daughter too. Perhaps he had overreacted, not that he would ever admit that to the meddling old coot. 

“The Quidditch boys have been looking after her,” he said, trying to dismiss Dumbledore’s words and his own misgivings. “Mister Malfoy has often complained to me about Mister Pucey hexing him. Mister Pucey never denies it but claims he only does it because Malfoy is tormenting the girl.” 

Dumbledore hummed, turning his eyes towards the window. It was times like this Dumbledore showed his age, lines of concentration and age etched into his face. The man was a master plotter, having been at the center of two wars, with a third one brewing. Dumbledore was a happy man, but he had lived a hard life, one that Severus did not envy, even though it had brought Dumbledore the love and admiration of the masses. To be relied on by so many, so publicly had to weigh on him, and Severus could never have managed such a burden—Severus much preferred the quiet life, though he had never been allowed to live one. With the return of the Dark Lord looming over him, he knew he would have to return to his duties as Dumbledore’s spy, and he too would have the fate of the wizarding world on his shoulders. 

“Do keep an eye on Tom,” said Dumbledore at last. “Tell him whatever he asks—the protections on the stone are not so strong he could not manage without you and telling him what you know will gain his trust.” 

“And if he asks me to deliver the girl to him?” 

“We shall cross that bridge when we come to it, my boy.” 

*HP* 

Hazel made her way to the library, pale-faced and paranoid. What if Snape had spotted her? What if he knew she had spied on him? Worse, what if Quirrell knew, with that thing in the back of his head? Lord Voldemort, it had called itself. 

The man who had killed her parents had returned. 

She knew she ought to tell someone, an adult, but she didn’t dare. What if they didn’t believe her and told Snape or Quirrell about her wild tale? Then she was dead. No adult had ever believed her before, not when she tried to tell them about how the Dursleys treated her. There was no reason to think the adults here would be any different. Telling adults her secrets only ever brought her pain. 

She had been on the brink of apologizing to Snape. She regretted that impulse now—the man had bowed before that thing, the thing that had killed her parents, without hesitation. Hazel did not want his forgiveness—she craved his hate. Evil and good were supposed to hate each other; anything else just brought unnecessary complications. She hated Snape now, for his willingness to serve Voldemort, and she wanted him to hate her. 

She found Daphne and Hermione sitting in their usual corner, whispering over the top of large books so as to avoid Madam Pince’s sharp eyes and even keener ears. Hazel sat down across from them, picking up a book of her own— _The Historie of the Minde Artes_. She opened it to a random page, playing along with their act until Daphne slammed her book down on the table. 

“Enough of this,” said Daphne, her tone just above a whisper. “Let that old biddy throw us out for not reading or working on homework—I’m tired of the library. We need to find some place better to meet, where we don’t have to whisper and pretend to read. Honestly, would anyone actually think I care about whatever stupid thing this book is about?” 

Hermione shushed her but sat down her own book and looked at Hazel intently. “What’s wrong, Hazel?” she asked. “You look awfully upset.” 

“Snape,” she said. 

“See!” said Daphne. “I told you that he was a nasty piece of work.” “That’s the understatement of the year,” Hazel said. “I think he’s working for Voldemort. No, I know he’s working for Voldemort.” 

Hermione squeaked at the sound of the name and Daphne raised a brow, but neither girl said anything more about it. Hazel wasn’t trying to be brave—she just found it silly to go about calling someone You-Know-Who. And if it was about respect for Voldemort, she certainly wasn’t going to avoid his name—she had no respect for the madman who had killed her parents or those who served him. 

“Well,” Daphne said. “That’s what my father told me too. Said he was a Death Eater who only got out on Dumbledore’s say-so. That’s why he wanted me to avoid Snape—he thinks he’s not as reformed as Dumbledore would have the rest of us believe.” 

“A Death Eater?” said Hazel. “Like in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_?” 

“That’s the only place I’ve read about them too,” said Hermione. “They’re rather contemporary—they’ve only been around since the sixties or so. I gather most people are too afraid to write about them while some are still around, so not much is known about them other than them serving You-Know-Who.” 

“If they’re Voldemort’s servants, then that’s definitely what Snape is. Hermione, I saw Voldemort.” 

“You saw You-Know-Who?” Daphne said incredulously. “At Hogwarts?” 

“Yeah,” Hazel said. She grimaced. If Daphne had doubts over just that, what she was about to say certainly wouldn’t help matters. “He’s living in the back of Quirrell’s head.” 

Daphne looked at her blankly for a moment. Hermione shifted in her chair. “Are you sure?” Daphne asked. 

“Dead sure. I saw it.” 

“Oh, Hazel! Surely you made a mistake, there’s simply no way Professor Dumbledore—” 

“As much as I hate to agree with Hermione, I agree with Hermione,” Daphne said, wry smile touching her lips. “Dumbledore is many things, but he wouldn’t let You-Know-Who in the school for anything. And, well, missing that one of your professors is possessed by the darkest wizard in recent memory would make him seriously incompetent.” 

“I know what I saw,” Hazel insisted. “Quirrell took off his turban. There was a face in the back of his head, and it called itself Lord Voldemort! Snape called that thing his lord!” 

“I’ve never read about anything like that,” Hermione said. “Two people physically inhabiting one body? How would that even work?” 

“I don’t know, but I need you guys to believe me! I didn’t take a Bludger to the head or have a nightmare or a hallucination—what I saw was real! Snape and Quirrell are helping Voldemort. He wants the stone so he can build himself a new body.” 

Daphne and Hermione shared a look. Daphne started to speak hesitantly. “I’m not saying I believe you—that Quirrell is possessed by You-Know-Who—but what could we do about it? Come on, Hazel, we’re just a bunch of useless firsties. If you really saw that, you need to tell Dumbledore.” 

“My best friends don’t believe me,” said Hazel. “Dumbledore will laugh me right out of his office if I go to him with this. He’ll probably tell Quirrell and Snape, and they’ll have a good laugh about it, and then I’ll be dead! Nothing good comes of telling adults anything, ever!” 

“Hazel,” Hermione said. “I really think you ought to tell Dumbledore. He would want to know your concerns about You-Know-Who. He’ll be able to tell you really believe what you’re saying, he’ll take you seriously—” 

“I’m not telling Dumbledore,” said Hazel. “Like Daphne said, we’re just a bunch of idiot firsties—” 

“As much as I’m inclined to agree, Potter, keep your voice down,” a silky voice said behind her, causing her to jump. “This is the library, not a Quidditch pitch. I’ll have a point from Slytherin.” 

The blood drained from Hazel’s face. Daphne and Hermione were shared a frightened look. It was Snape. She could only pray he had not been there long, that he had not heard what she had told Daphne and Hermione— 

“Anyways, Miss Potter,” he said. “I have come to collect you for your detention—surely you did not think a victory on the Quidditch pitch would allow you to skip it? That’s another week’s detentions with me, for making me come and find you. Come along now, Potter,” he said. 

Hazel looked up at him defiantly. Get close to her indeed—that’s what his master had told him to do. She refused to make his job easy—with any luck, Voldemort would think he had failed and off him for her, and that would be one less problem for her to deal with. She had thought herself above wishing death on anyone, but she would make exceptions for the spineless servants of Voldemort. It was men like Snape who had allowed him to come to power, men like Snape who had wreaked havoc on the wizarding world a decade ago, men like Snape who stood by while her parents were killed. 

“And if I don’t?” she said. 

Snape blinked. “Don’t be foolish, Potter.” 

“I’m not going,” she said. 

“Twenty points from Slytherin for insolence. Now come.” 

“You can’t make me,” she said. She had often heard Dudley use that line, to great effect. 

“Believe me, you foolish child, there are ways of making you move from that chair. Now, get up,” he said. His voice had taken on a dangerous tone, a tone that made Hazel uneasy. Just because Voldemort had told him to gain her trust rather than hurt her didn’t mean he wouldn’t. 

Hazel hesitated for a moment, thinking about getting up. Really, she was only making things worse for herself. One look at Hermione told her the other girl thought as much; she had her head in her hands. But before Hazel could stand, the chair came sliding out from under her, leaving her to fall to the ground with flailing arms. A strong hand seized her by the top of her robes and started pulling her towards the exit of the library. She was keenly aware of all the people watching them. 

“Let me go!” 

Snape said nothing and did not ease his grip on her robes. If anything, he walked faster. 

“Severus!” Madam Pince said. “Is that really necessary? You’re disturbing the whole library.” 

“Yes,” he snarled. “Miss Potter thought making a scene was necessary. She refused to come with me.” 

He didn’t pause to hear Madam Pince’s response, instead opting to continue storming towards the dungeons. He kept his grip on her robes all the way to the dungeons, not caring how many passersby gaped at them. Hazel’s face was red from embarrassment by the time they reached his office, but she was also angry—how dare he? He was the one working for Voldemort, he was the one who was evil, how could he expect her to come willingly! 

“I don’t know where that attitude came from, Miss Potter, but I suggest you lose it unless you wish to be in detention for the rest of your days at Hogwarts.” 

Hazel scowled at him. “What am I going to be doing tonight?” 

“Sir,” he said. 

“There’s no need to call me sir, professor,” she said. Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. She would never have dared get smart with any other professor, but it was different with Snape. He was serving Voldemort, the man who had killed her parents. He was a Death Eater, evil, a greasy-haired git—he was looking straight into her eyes! 

Hazel immediately averted her gaze. Whenever she looked into Snape’s eyes, she felt a prickling sensation in her head. He always seemed to know what she was thinking—she had the horrible feeling that Snape could read her mind. 

She felt a cold hand on her chin, pulling her face up. She was gazing straight into Snape’s sallow face. His black eyes were boring into hers, and the prickling sensation returned. Then she couldn’t look away, couldn’t move—she was tumbling through her memories. 

A flash of green light. High, cold laughter. Hagrid telling her about Voldemort. Daphne insisting Snape couldn’t be trusted. Hermione’s assurances that it had been Snape who had cursed her and her own doubts. Her mixed feelings about him until today, and now her burning hate for the man in front of her. And then she was in the forest again, listening to his screams split the silence. 

*HP* 

He pulled out of her mind, sweat pooling on his brow. The girl knew, she had seen everything. Greengrass’s words echoed through his mind—she had told the girl he couldn’t be trusted. The girl had resisted that notion for a time, but now he had completely, irrevocably broken her trust. She knew he was a Death Eater, knew he had served Voldemort, knew he was not the mere strict teacher he pretended to be. She knew, and there was only one thing to do. He slid his wand out of his sleeve, into his damp palm. Dumbledore wouldn’t approve. Even Severus himself could not approve. But he could castigate himself later. For now, he would have to do what needed to be done. 

"What did you see?” he whispered. But he knew, knew what she had seen. 

“I-I—nothing,” she said, pale-faced. 

He drew his wand and pointed it at her forehead. The girl flinched and turned, turned and ran to the door. With a flick of his wand, he locked the door. She rattled the doorknob. She was breathing heavily now. She turned back towards him, terror clearly written on her face. 

He grabbed her by the shoulder and forced her to turn around, flinching as she flailed her arms and legs. She caught him in the groin, causing him to double over. Pain radiated all through his body and knocked the wind out of him, but he managed to grab her by the shoulders again. He leaned heavily on her, panting, trying to hold her in place. 

She kept trying to hit him, striking any bit of him she could reach. But it was no good. He had his wand drawn, and she had not thought to draw hers, not that she knew any spells that could harm him. He removed one of his hands from her and pointed his wand at her again. “ _Immobulus_ ,” he said. Instantly, the struggling stopped. 

He looked into those wide, terrified hazel eyes and felt guilt wash over him. This was Lily’s daughter and he couldn’t help but admire the fight she had in her. Lily would have done the same thing. She would not have hesitated to stand up to him, to have expressed her opposition any way she could, even if that took the form of disrespect. She would have hit, kicked, bit to protect herself. She would have done just as her daughter had done. 

He placed the tip of his wand to her still forehead. The girl’s eyes moved, crossing to look at the tip of his wand. That was the only movement the spell allowed her. He concentrated all his power into the spell and focused on what he wanted to do. He needed to be extremely precise, and obliviating children with their scattered, imaginative thoughts was notoriously difficult. When he thought his preparation was sufficient, he cast the spell. 

“ _Obliviate_ ,” he said. 

The girl’s eyes took on a dreamy quality as her eyes moved to stare at the ceiling. Guilt washed over him—Lily would have never forgiven him for this. Obliviating someone was a terrible violation of their personal autonomy. Much as he hated some of his memories, they were what made him himself. He would never willingly give them up, even the many painful ones. He was taking something from the girl, and he was violating her mind yet again. 

He could only hope Greengrass and Granger were as skeptical as they had seemed. They didn’t believe that someone as timid as Quirrell could play host to the Dark Lord, certainly. And if the girl let the matter drop, then perhaps they would as well. If they reminded the girl of what she had said, the girl would deny it now. It wasn’t completely forgotten, but she now remembered it as a hazy dream, a premonition. If the girl had any sense, she wouldn’t put her faith in such things, and neither would her two friends. He hadn’t dared completely remove it—her friends would find that suspicious. 

He didn’t have time to ponder it, however. He needed to release the girl from the charm before she came back to herself. It wouldn’t do to have to obliviate her again, particularly if it was because he had taken his time thinking and moping over how wrong he was to do this. 

He released the spell and kneeled beside her, shaking her shoulder lightly. “Miss Potter,” he said. 

The girl blinked. “What happened?” 

“You passed out,” he said. “Perhaps you have not been eating enough.” 

“What? I eat plenty,” she said. “But not today I guess…I was nervous about the game. Didn’t eat breakfast, or lunch.” 

If he didn’t feel so terrible about what he had done, he would have sneered. People were always so suggestible, after an obliviate. 

He let her take her time sitting up, but when she did, her eyes widened. “God! I can’t believe I sassed you like that! I’m sorry, professor, I don’t know what came over me!” 

“Perhaps lack of nutrition addled your brain beyond the usual, Potter,” he said. “I will forgive you this once. I assure you, you are not the first student to take an attitude with me, nor will you be the last.” 

The girl blinked again. Evidently the girl had trouble believing he could forgive her for that—but how could he not, when he knew why she had acted as she did? Showing disrespect towards someone you thought was trying to deliver you to the Dark Lord was brave. He wondered why the hat hadn’t put the girl in Gryffindor. She certainly had her mother’s fiery nature. 

“Still,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that.” 

“We are in agreement,” he said wryly. “Now let us go to the hospital wing so you are Madam Pomfrey’s responsibility rather than mine.” 

*HP* 

“What do you mean, it was just a dream?” Daphne said. “You seemed dead sure it was real. You said, I quote, ‘I didn’t have a nightmare.’” 

Hazel played with the white sheet draped over her. Madam Pomfrey had insisted she stay in the hospital wing for the night, all while stuffing her full of the heartiest foods she could find. She had received a terrible lecture about taking better care of herself, about how she would have her taken of the Quidditch team if she didn’t eat right, how these things could turn into eating disorders. Hazel knew better than to tell her she had never eaten right. Withholding meals was a favorite punishment of the Dursleys. She had never passed out before. She didn’t know why it would happen now. 

“I think I was just shook up from the dream—I, I thought it was real. It did seem real. But it was just a dream.” 

Daphne considered this for a moment, running a hand through her long, blonde hair. She glanced at Hermione, and then said, “Maybe you’re a seer. That would explain it. It hasn’t happened yet, but it could happen, or maybe not. Seers never know which of their visions are going to come true. It would explain a lot.” 

Hermione snorted. “Dreams as premonitions? That sounds like nonsense.” 

“I bet magic sounded fake until it was explained to you,” Daphne said heatedly. “My mother is a seer.” 

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “Divination is a very sketchy area of magic. I asked Professor McGonagall about it too, when I didn’t understand something I read about prophecies. She told me not to pay it any mind, that it was a bunch nonsense.” 

“It’s not sketchy,” Daphne said. “It’s misunderstood. It’s no more unlikely than magic itself existing. I’m just saying, it would explain why Hazel thought it was real when it wasn’t. We still need to keep an eye on Snape and Quirrell—her premonition could mean he’s up to something.” 

“People don’t have other people sticking out of the back of their head!” Hermione said. 

“It could’ve been symbolic! You know, for Quirrell being Voldemort’s puppet.” 

“Or it could be a load of hogwash!” 

Hazel heard Daphne mutter something like “close-minded bookworm”—Hermione opened her mouth to respond, so Hazel raised a hand and told them to shut up, that they were making her barmy. Hermione had the decency to look contrite, but Daphne looked like she still wanted to argue. 

“What do we do now, then? Say she did have, a _premonition_ ,” she said, saying the last word as if it were something dirty. “Do we warn people about it?” 

Daphne frowned. “I don’t think so. Divination is a form of time magic, though most people don’t think of it as such. Terrible things happen to people who meddle with time. People have gone mad trying to stop a future they don’t know was going to come to pass in the first place. All Divination shows is possibilities, not eventualities.” 

“Perhaps I should read more about Divination before writing it off,” Hermione said. “I had never heard it was time magic. Most of the books on it in the library were filled with pretentious drivel about how it was the most noble art of parsing the possible from the definite.” 

“You’re right,” Daphne said. “Most of the books are pretentious drivel. But pretentious drivel is what sells.” 

“I suppose so,” Hermione said sheepishly. “But Professor McGonagall said…” 

“Professor McGonagall knows a lot about Transfiguration, but isn’t an expert on Divination, Hermione. She’s very rational—you can’t expect her to approach a subject that most think spurns rationality with a fair outlook.” 

"What does it mean if I am a seer? Will I dream more things like this?” 

“Possibly,” Daphne said. “Mother says some seers don’t have much of the talent and only see rarely. It’s impossible to tell. You could have premonitions every night, or not at all. If you want to, you can write my mother for advice. She knows all about Snape from my father and won’t dismiss your story out of hand.” 

”I don’t know,” Hazel said. “I’m sure your mum’s nice, but I don’t like the idea of telling anyone else. The more people who know something, the harder it is to keep it secret.” 

“My mother’s no blabbermouth,” Daphne said. 

“I’m sure she isn’t. But for now, until we know more, I’d like to keep this just between us.” 

“I still say we should go to Professor Dumbledore,” Hermione said. 

“I promise, if Snape and Quirrell try anything, I’ll tell Dumbledore.” 

“If it’s not too late,” Daphne muttered.


	9. Chapter 9

He stumbled across the room towards the door. Someone was knocking. At this hour, it could only be Dumbledore. He scowled. He didn’t fancy meeting with the headmaster in this sorry state, but the man would find a way in rather he wanted him here or not. The castle simply responded to him, letting him go wherever he wished to go. It was just easier for all concerned if he accepted the inevitable and opened the door. 

“Headmaster,” he said, still scowling. 

Dumbledore smiled, and his eyes only twinkled brighter. “How many times have I told you to call me Albus, my dear boy?” 

“Not enough for me to do it,” he said. 

Dumbledore’s eyes fell to the firewhisky bottle in his hand. Severus didn’t even try to hide it—it would be obvious to anyone who bothered to look that he was drunk. He was well on his way to becoming an alcoholic to rival his damnable father. His perpetual scowl deepened at the thought—he didn’t want to be anything like that man. The thought almost convinced him to set the bottle down, but it was too late for that. He took another swig instead. 

“I do believe you will quite regret this in the morning.” 

“I regret a lot of things. Not the least of which obliviating the girl.” 

“You obliviated Miss Potter?” Dumbledore said, a bit sharply. 

“I did,” he said, laughing a bitter laugh. “She was taking an attitude with me, so I looked in her mind. She saw me and Quirrell in the forest, the whole conversation. So I obliviated her—she’s supposed to trust me, after all, and how would she if she knew I had submitted myself to the Dark Lord’s service?” 

“I’ll think you will find that Miss Potter is a bright child, Severus. She would have understood the circumstances had you explained.” 

“Explained what? That the Dark Lord thinks I’m his loyal servant, but I’m only pretending, as I’m actually yours? Explain the whole tangled web of my life?” 

Dumbledore peered at him from over his glasses, sitting down in the armchair he frequently claimed. “Children are capable of much more understanding than you give them credit for.” 

Severus laughed again, taking another drink of firewhisky, relishing the burn as it slid down his throat. “Children are arrogant little berks who look for an excuse to hate anything different than they are.” 

“I find most children to be delightfully accepting when it comes to accepting things which are different, provided they have not been taught otherwise.” 

A crooked grin took over Severus’s face. “You forget who you’re talking to, old man. The other children in Cokeworth were all too happy to make fun of the long-haired, greasy, ugly little kid who wore his mother’s old blouses. And Hogwarts wasn’t any better—not with Potter and his ilk hounding me from the very train. Always accusing me of something when I just wanted to be left alone, calling me Snivellus, convincing the whole school that I was worthless. Even Lily, in the end.” 

A look of sad contemplation replaced the usual twinkling in Dumbledore’s eyes. For a moment, he seemed far away, lost in his own thoughts. When he came back to himself, he said, “Yes, children can be capable of great cruelty, Severus, but that is not what lurks in their very nature. Children fear, but seldom do they truly hate.” 

Severus knew better than to try to convince him. He was a man who would always remain positive, even in the worst of times. He saw the best in situations, just as he saw the best in people who perhaps didn’t deserve it. Severus maintained that Dumbledore had to be mad, trusting him as he did. He didn’t deserve it. He was a selfish man—all he had wanted was for his one friend to survive, even if that meant the rest of her family died. Yet Dumbledore wouldn’t hear a word against him now, all because of love. He wouldn’t hear a word against children either, all because he thought they were capable of great love as well. 

So he decided on an adolescent approach. He rolled his eyes and said, “Whatever.” 

Dumbledore only smiled. 

“Aren’t you going to punish me?” he muttered. “I did something illegal, again. And it was wrong, and I knew it.” 

He felt uncharacteristically vulnerable. He wanted Dumbledore to yell at him, to rage at him, to do anything but sit there and look at him knowingly. He knew how to react to punishment, but even after all these years, Dumbledore’s unflappable demeanor unsettled him. He was used to his father’s fists, his mother’s indifference, the Dark Lord’s wand, the students’ hate, but not this calm caring. He was used to being hated and despised, excluded and unvalued. But Dumbledore was different. He saw something of worth in him and cared for him and his opinions. 

“My boy, I do believe you punish yourself enough already.” 

“Not enough,” Severus said. “Never enough.” 

He started to take another drink from his bottle, but found it was empty. He stood up on shaky legs to go fetch another one from his liquor cabinet but tripped on a stack of books and fell. Dumbledore rose from his armchair to help the younger man to his feet, but Severus waved him away, struggling to stand on his own. Dumbledore seized his arm with the strength of a much younger man and steadied him, patting him on the back. 

When Severus made to get another bottle of firewhisky, Dumbledore's gentle hand remained on his back. Severus flinched away, but Dumbledore persisted. 

“I believe you have had enough for the night, Severus.” 

“I managed fine before you came along.” 

“Humor an old man’s wishes, then. As I said, it is likely you will regret this when morning comes. I am not unacquainted with the ills of overindulgence myself.” 

Severus snorted. “You, drunk. Now that’s something I would like to see.” 

“It has been many years,” he said, eyes twinkling. “I recall an incident with my dear friend Elphias that involved smuggling in firewhisky and setting some bed curtains on fire. Unfortunately, the rest of the dormitory caught fire too. I do believe that was the first and only time Headmaster Black entered the Gryffindor common room. He was rather upset with Elphias and I.” 

“I can imagine,” Severus said, trying to shake Dumbledore’s hand off him. “If one of my Slytherins set a dormitory on fire because they were drunk, they’d be in detention for the rest of their days at Hogwarts.” 

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “You do like assigning detentions, especially to young Hazel.” 

“I would quit assigning her detentions if she quit earning them.” 

“Perhaps it’s your way of enjoying the dear girl’s company. Minerva says she’s a delightful child, if not as talented as her father was.” 

He scowled again at the mention of that bastard. “She has Lily’s knack for Potions,” he said. He must be drunker than he thought, willingly mentioning Lily. But these days he found her name not far from the tip of his tongue, what with the girl looking and acting so much like her. If the even-brighter twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes was anything to go by, he thought that was an improvement. 

The smile fell slightly from Dumbledore’s face as their eyes locked. Severus averted his gaze, not because he feared legilimency, but because he was ashamed. Here was the man who wanted to be like the father he never had, and he was pushing him away, making a fool of himself. Severus wanted to deserve Dumbledore’s love—he knew it was freely given, but no one should ever just give something so precious to a wretch like him. Somehow, he would end up ruining it, even though all his misdeeds had been forgiven thus far. 

“What am I doing?” he said, more to himself than Dumbledore. 

Dumbledore’s hand returned to his back. This time, he didn’t flinch away, through an act of will. He wasn’t used to being touched, other than to be hit or slapped. Even after all these years, his abusive childhood continued to hound him. He had gotten marginally better at controlling his reactions but knew he would never completely be free of them. He suspected he would only ever be comfortable with touch he initiated. 

“I don’t know, my dear boy. Drowning your sorrows only serves to deepen them.” 

He stumbled back towards the sofa. He didn’t want to hear Dumbledore’s wisdom right now. It just made him feel even more wretched. Dumbledore would have known what to do, other than obliviate the girl. He would never have done something horrid, not even in service of the greater good. He would have found another way, persisted in explaining the circumstances until the girl understood. But Severus couldn’t have done that. His words were a shield to hide behind, not anything to gain a young girl’s trust. He knew all about driving people away and making them hate him, but nothing about gaining their admiration and trust. 

He probably never would. No one had ever liked him much and he knew it. Even most of the staff barely tolerated him, and only did so because Dumbledore claimed to trust him. They knew all about his stint in Azkaban, the pathetic creature he had been afterwards. And they certainly had their suspicions about what he had done to be placed there, had ideas about what horrible things the pitiful boy they had taught had done. 

He just wanted it all to end. 

He met Dumbledore’s blue eyes, which were filled with concern. Dumbledore wanted him to open up, confess his feelings, but he had done more than enough of that tonight. He had revealed too much tonight and shown the worst of himself to the one person who still cared about him. 

He leaned over, putting his head in his hands. He would have a pounding headache in the morning. 

“Goodnight, Albus,” he said. 

Dumbledore smiled at the use of his name, stood up, and walked out the door, leaving Severus to his self-recriminating thoughts. 

*HP* 

The weather had turned, as it was now mid-April. It still rained something fierce from time to time, but it was now regularly warm enough to be out on the grounds. Daphne, Hermione, and Hazel had claimed a solid old oak tree by the lake, and often spent their breaks under its stolid shade. Daphne was glad to be out of the library’s stuffy confines, while Hermione missed having all those wonderful books within reach. Hazel, for her part, found anywhere her friends were a good enough place to be. 

Hazel took off her socks and shoes and waded into the lake until the water reached her knees. The water had a bite to it. It was warmer now, but the water was still cold. Hermione told her that it was much too cold still to be in the water, and no one else had joined her yet. But Hazel didn’t mind the cold or the lack of company. For once, she was free to be herself. Never had she been allowed to do something so carefree as stand in the muddy water of a lake and skip rocks—the Dursleys simply wouldn’t have it. Daphne had to show her how to do it, standing a few feet away on the shore while Hermione read in the shade of the tree. 

Hazel smiled when one of her rocks skipped far out, disappearing into the distance. That had been the best one yet. 

A loud shriek and splash behind her drew her from her peaceful thoughts. She turned around to see Daphne sitting in the water, covered in mud. Draco Malfoy stood behind her, self-satisfied smirk planted on his face. Daphne glowered at the blond boy. Hazel drew her wand. 

“You ought to know better than to associate with scarhead and the know-it-all mudblood, Greengrass” Malfoy said. “I thought your family was more well-bred than that.” 

“More well-bred than yours, Malfoy,” Daphne retorted. “Because we’re not bred at all. Or should I say inbred?” 

Pink tinged Malfoy’s cheeks. He drew his wand and pointed it at her, emphasizing each word with a wave. “You take that back, blood traitor,” he said. 

“No,” she said. “I don’t think I will. Everyone knows it’s true—your family hates foreigners and anyone with less than pure blood, so you’ve resorted to marrying your own cousins. Your mother was a Black, yes? They’re even worse about it than the Malfoys. It’s no wonder you’re such an ugly git, with genes like that.” 

Hazel waded back towards Daphne, keeping her wand held aloft. She offered Daphne a hand up with her free hand, which the other girl graciously took. Daphne drew her own wand and pointed it at Crabbe, who had drawn his as well. Goyle looked on stupidly, scrambling to draw his wand when he realized everyone else had theirs out. 

Malfoy sneered. “We’ve got you outnumbered. I daresay we can do whatever we like— _Locomotor Mortis!_ ” 

Hazel dodged the curse, splashing in the water. She nearly slipped in the mud but caught herself on Daphne’s shoulder before she fell. She held on, steadying herself. Hazel laughed and said, “You’ll have to do better than that!” 

She fired off the Dancing Feet Spell. Malfoy dodged it, but it hit Crabbe, who was standing behind him. The big boy lost control of his feet, which were now leading him on a tap-dance routine. He looked like a dancing ape, and when the jinx ended, it sent him sliding in the mud, which caused him to fall into the lake. Hazel giggled at the sight, and only wished it was Malfoy who had fallen rather than Crabbe. 

“I’ll get you for that, scarhead!” 

“I rather think not, Mister Malfoy,” a distinctly Scottish voice said behind him. 

Malfoy closed his eyes and screwed up his face. Hazel smiled—Professor McGonagall had come. She was going to enjoy seeing the arrogant boy get his punishment. 

“Miss Granger came and found me when she saw you approaching. She seemed to think you were going to cause trouble. As usual, she was right,” Professor McGonagall said dryly. 

Hermione peeked out from behind Professor McGonagall, her face flushed in pleasure from the praise. 

“Potter cursed Crabbe!” 

“It was a harmless jinx, Mister Malfoy. That being said, I’ll have ten points from Slytherin for using magic on another student without their consent, and another five from you, Mister Malfoy, for starting a duel. Don’t think I didn’t see you cast that spell on the way down here.” 

Malfoy turned red. “Potter deserves detention!” 

“Do not tell me how to discipline my students, Mister Malfoy. I assure you I know what I’m doing—I’ve been a teacher longer than you’ve been alive. Now return to the castle. I believe these three girls were managing fine without your presence.” 

Malfoy shot Hazel and Daphne a nasty glare over his shoulder, but turned and marched back up to the castle, muttering curses under his breath, McGonagall on his heels, lecturing him about his language. 

“Well, that was refreshing,” Daphne said, wiping her muddy hands on her robes. “Do you reckon the house elves can get the mud out? These are my favorite robes.” 

“Let me try, Daphne!” Hermione said. 

“I should have known you’d be a nutter about cleaning to,” Daphne muttered. 

Hermione ignored the blonde girl’s jibe and said, “ _Mundare!_ ” 

A jet of pink bubbles shot from the end of Hermione’s wand. The bubbles engulfed the muddy robes and made a gurgling sound. After a few seconds, the bubbles disappeared, leaving a spotless Daphne standing ankle-deep in the lake. 

“I love magic,” Hazel said. 

“I’ve just been waiting to try that spell!” Hermione said. “I—” 

“Read about it in a book,” Daphne said. “We know, Hermione.” 

Hazel grinned. They argued a lot, but she really loved her friends. She didn’t know where she would be without them. 

A moment later, an owl hooted above them and dropped a letter on Hazel, which she caught before it fell into the water. She unfolded the large piece of parchment with deft hands and read out the contents to Hermione and Daphne. “Hazel, if you would like to come visit me, I have something I think you’ll find interesting. Yours, Hagrid.” 

“That’s mysterious,” Daphne said. “I didn’t think Hagrid could do mysterious.” 

“Me neither. What do you reckon it’s about?” said Hazel. 

“I don’t know, but we really ought to get back up to the castle,” Hermione said. “It looks like it’s going to rain.” 

“Come on, Hermione!” Hazel said. “It’s Hagrid.” 

“That’s what concerns me. Every time we go see Hagrid, he tells us something we shouldn’t know, and you take to it like a dog with a bone. Look where searching for Nicolas Flamel got us!” 

Hazel smiled sheepishly. “What if I promise not to do anything rash?” 

“You don’t know how to take no for an answer, do you?” Daphne said. “Let’s go with her to Hagrid’s—you know the drill, Hermione. She’ll say she’s going with or without us, we’ll get sucked in to whatever scheme she’s dreamed up, she’ll execute said scheme, and then we’ll be in a load of trouble.” 

“But it’s always fun,” Hazel said, grinning. 

“I miss the library,” Hermione sighed. 

The three girls made their way down to Hagrid’s hut. They were surprised to see the windows closed and the curtains drawn. Hagrid normally had the windows open, when the weather was nice—he said his hut got stuffy when it was hot outside. Hazel knocked on the door—even if he didn’t look like he wanted company, he had invited them. Hagrid called “Who is it?” before he let them, and then shut the door behind them as soon as they were through it. 

Hazel now knew what Hagrid meant when he said it was stuffy in his cabin when it was hot. Why he had a fire blazing in the grate, Hazel couldn’t guess. She stripped off her outer robe and tossed it over a chair. Hermione and Daphne did the same. She felt as though she would burst into flames if it got any hotter. 

Hagrid sat down at his table, drinking a glass of tea the size of a small barrel and eating a large stoat sandwich. He offered them some, which they politely refused. They were intimately familiar with the perils of eating Hagrid’s cooking. 

“Can we open a window?” Hazel said. “I’m boiling.” 

“Can’t, Hazel, sorry,” Hagrid said. He glanced at the fire. Hazel followed Hagrid’s gaze, which rested on a black egg in the heart of the fire. 

“Hagrid—what’s that?” She had a sinking suspicion that she already knew what it was—they had seen Hagrid in the library near the section on dragons during their last days in the library. 

“Ah,” said Hagrid, fiddling nervously with his beard. “That’s—er…” 

“Please tell me that’s not what I think it is,” Daphne said. “And please tell me you didn’t do anything illegal to get it—no, never mind, I _know_ you did something illegal to get it already. You can’t get dragon eggs legally!” 

“Yeh’d know all about that, wouldn’t yeh?” Hagrid said. “Yer dad being an auror and all. Well, I didn’t do anything shifty to get it—I’ve always wanted one, mind, but I wouldn’t ever do what it took to get one.” 

“Then how in Merlin’s name did you get one?” 

“Won it. Las’ night. I was down in the village havin’ a few drinks an’ got into a game o’ cards with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of it, ter be honest.” 

“I should think so!” 

“What are you going to do with it when it’s hatched?” Hermione asked. 

“Well, I’ve bin doin’ some readin’. I know how ter hatch it, what ter feed it when it does, and how ter recognize the egg. What I got here’s a Norwegian Ridgeback. Rare, very rare.” 

Hermione fixed him with a stern look that would’ve made Professor McGonagall proud. 

“Hagrid, you live in a wooden house.” 

Hagrid didn’t respond and instead hummed a merry tune as he stoked the fire. 

“You thought this would interest us, Hagrid?” Daphne said. “Make us concerned, more like.” 

“Come on, Daphne, it is interesting,” Hazel said. 

“That’s one word for it,” she muttered. 

“I called yeh down here, yeh see, because it’s hatching.” Hagrid reached into the fire with a massive set of tongs and pulled the eggs out, setting the egg on the table. 

The egg cracked—a small, spiky head poked out of the opening. A black eye larger than seemed possible for the head’s size was fixed on Hagrid. A forked tongue slithered out of its mouth, and then back in. Daphne looked as though she was about to faint. 

The dragon, with a shake of its head, cracked the rest of the shell, which fell in pieces on the table. 

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Hagrid murmured, reaching out to stroke the dragon’s head. The dragon snapped at his fingers in a flash of pointy fangs. “Bless him, look, he knows his mummy!” 

“Mummy?” Daphne said incredulously. 

Just as Hagrid was about to answer, the color drained from his face. He leapt to his feet and ran to the window. 

“Someone was lookin’ through the gap in the curtains,” he said. “It’s a kid—he’s runnin’ back up ter the school. 

Hazel bolted to the door and looked out. Even at a distance, there was no mistaking that downy blond hair. 

“That was Malfoy, Hagrid,” Hazel said. “He’s going to go get someone—we’re going to be in such trouble!” 

“No yer not,” Hagrid said. “Yer goin’ ter go back up ter the school and get in bed and pretend yeh never met Norbert—” 

“Norbert!” Daphne cut in. 

“—and yeh’ll leave me ter whatever trouble I’ll get into fer havin’ him.” 

“No, Hagrid!” Hazel said. “We’re in this together.” She reached across the table and patted Hagrid’s hand. He was shaking his head. 

“No, Hazel. Bless yeh fer thinkin’ it, but this is my problem. I shouldn’t have told yeh ter come down here, jus’ thought yeh’d like to see the egg hatch. Isn’t summat that most witches get ter see.” 

“Come on, Hazel,” Hermione said, tugging on the sleeve of her robe. “Hagrid’s right—he’ll be in enough trouble without them knowing he had students here.” 

Hazel considered this—leaving a friend because he was in trouble seemed a cowardly thing to do. Hagrid had always stood by her, hadn’t stopped caring about her just because she was in Slytherin. It seemed a small thing to stand by him now. But Hermione was right—Hagrid would be in enough trouble when Malfoy brought someone back to see the dragon. He would surely be sacked if whoever Malfoy told found him showing three students after curfew. As it was, they could only hope that whichever teacher Malfoy found wouldn’t believe that they had been there if they had no proof aside from his word. 

Hazel stood up, following Daphne and Hermione to the door. She paused and rested her hand on the doorknob, shooting one last apologetic look to Hagrid, who was shooing her out the door. 

The three girls raced back up towards the school, their feet leaving damp imprints in the soggy grass. 

“Nearly there!” Hazel panted, as they reached the doors to the school. She pushed them open and nearly groaned at the sight that greeted her. 

Professor McGonagall, in a tartan bathrobe and a hair net, holding Malfoy by the ear. 

“Detention!” she shouted. “After I took you back up to the castle! Twenty points from Slytherin! Wandering around after curfew, how dare you—” 

“Miss Potter!” 

Hazel closed her eyes. It had been too much to hope that Professor McGonagall wouldn’t notice them sneaking in through the crack in the doors. Luck certainly was not on their side tonight. First a dragon, now being caught by McGonagall after curfew. 

Not to mention the fact that Professor Snape was going to kill her. 

“You don’t understand, professor!” Malfoy said. “She’s got a dragon—it’s down with Hagrid!” 

Professor McGonagall stopped in her tracks. Hazel closed her eyes again. Hagrid was going to be in such trouble if she didn’t do some very fast thinking. 

“It-it was just a toy,” Hazel invented wildly. “Made to look like a dragon. Hagrid told me he had always wanted a dragon, so when I saw that in Toymeisters of London’s catalog, I just had to get it for him.” 

Professor McGonagall stopped for a moment, a glassy look in her eyes. Hazel almost sighed in relief—Professor McGonagall believed the story and if the look in her eyes spoke to her thoughts, was impressed by it as well. 

She came back to herself with a shake of her head. “Be that as it may, Miss Potter, you are out of bed after curfew. Nothing, nothing excuses that. Twenty points from Slytherin each, for you and Miss Greengrass, and twenty from Gryffindor, Miss Granger. Detention as well. And Professor Snape will be hearing about this—I would have thought you learned your lesson after last time.” 

Hazel blushed at the mention of her last ill-fated foray into wandering the school after curfew. She supposed that at least she hadn’t been found in a forbidden corridor and had only lost twenty points for Slytherin. Not that her housemates would be happy about that—they still hadn’t forgiven her for her last bout of rule-breaking. 

“Now get back to your common rooms, all of you, and don’t let me catch you out after curfew again.” 

Not two days later, they received their instructions for detention from Professor McGonagall. Daphne and Hermione were to report Hagrid for detention, along with Malfoy, whereas Hazel had earned yet another detention with Professor Snape. He was…civil…with her again, though he curiously seemed to be avoiding her. Hazel had not spoken to the man outside of class since she had fainted, so it seemed odd that he would be voluntarily spending time with her now. But she didn’t have time to dwell on it, as she needed to be there by six o’clock. Bidding Daphne goodbye, she stood up from the Slytherin table, leaving her dinner half-eaten, and made her way to the dungeons. 

*HP* 

Severus paced the length of his classroom, waiting on the girl to knock on the door. The Dark Lord had instructed him to take her detention. That did not bode well, to say the least. He had no idea what the madman had planned, nor did Dumbledore, who had only told him to play along unless it placed the girl in danger he could not protect her from. He feared that by the time he recognized such a danger, it would be too late. 

When he heard a knock on his door, he immediately called “Enter.” He usually liked to keep students waiting, to build their anticipation, but he was in no mood for such games tonight. He wanted to know what the Dark Lord’s plans were, so he could protect the girl. 

When the door opened, he found himself face to face not with the girl, but with Quirrell, who was smirking at him. “Severus,” he said, striding into the classroom. “Our master wishes to speak with you.” 

“The girl will be here soon,” he hissed. “If she walks in on us talking to the Dark Lord, then what will we do?” 

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” 

His blood turned cold. If being caught by the girl didn’t matter anymore, that could only mean one thing—the Dark Lord planned on killing her tonight. 

And Dumbledore was gone. 

This did not bode well at all. 

Quirrell unwrapped his turban, and Severus found himself standing face to face with the Dark Lord again. He averted his gaze. He had no desire to look at that hideous abomination. He had always been fascinated by Dark Magic, yes, but this was beyond anything he desired to associate with. The Dark Lord was blasely practicing magics blacker than anything Severus had ever studied. 

“Sseveruss,” the Dark Lord hissed. “Do not look away from me.” 

So this was the Dark Lord’s mood. Knowing better than to disobey a direct order, he looked straight into the Dark Lord’s milky eyes and slammed his Occlumency shields into place. The Dark Lord could not know about his obliviating the girl—to take such monumental action without the Dark Lord’s approval would mean punishment. Instead he pushed forwards the small actions he had taken to gain the girl’s trust back—giving her points for potions well-completed, simple praise on her essays, the typical favoring of Slytherin. 

“Weak efforts, Severus,” the Dark Lord hissed. “You have not once spoken to the girl outside of your duties as a teacher. She is supposed to trust you, not think of you as any other teacher.” 

Severus bowed his head. “I am sorry for my failure, my lord.” 

“As you should be. We shall discuss this…failure…at a later time. For now, we have more pressing matters to attend to. If the girl will not come willingly, she must be made to come.” 

“Come where?” 

“Really, Severus. I had thought you intelligent. Surely you know by now, why I came here tonight? Tonight is the night you shall help me return to power, my loyal servant. Tonight is the night Hazel Potter dies.” 

Bumps prickled on Severus’s neck. To know it was one thing, to hear it was another. Oh, of all the nights for Dumbledore to be called to the Ministry! Why couldn’t Hagrid have managed to volunteer for the girl’s detention before him? Then she would be with her miscreant friends, safe from the Dark Lord’s machinations. He had thought the Dark Lord’s instructions to volunteer for the girl’s detention had merely been a part of his task to get close to her, not a plot to kill her. He was a fool, a fool for underestimating the Dark Lord’s intentions. 

“Do you not think this a good plan, Severus?” the Dark Lord asked. 

He had taken too long to reply. 

“It is an excellent plan, my lord. The headmaster is gone from the school—there is no one left to stop us. The girl will be dead by morning, and you will be returned to your former glory.” The words tumbled out, not at all the smooth and confident tones he used on students. The Dark Lord always had that effect on him. He could not help but be nervous, as he was never assured of his position in the madman’s eyes. 

And then another knock sounded on the door. With a flick of his wand, Quirrell had the turban back on his head. He fixed his face into his usual quivering expression and pretended to cower at the sight of Severus. Now that the younger man had appropriately composed himself, Severus called for the girl to enter. 

She walked through the door, her face flushed as though she had just finished running. Perhaps she had just finished running—one look at his pocket watch told him she was a minute late. 

“Miss Potter,” he said. 

“I’m so sorry, Professor!” she said. “I just got the message five minutes ago!” 

He raised a hand. “It is no matter, Miss Potter.” 

“So what am I doing tonight? Scrubbing cauldrons again?” 

“Now, Severus!” the Dark Lord hissed. 

Severus drew his wand and pointed it at the girl, hating himself as he cast the spell. With the Dark Lord listening, there was only one thing to do. 

“ _Imperio,_ ” he said.


	10. Chapter 10

He immediately felt the weight of the girl’s mind clashing with his own. At first, there was the rush of her consciousness, the thousand thoughts zipping through her mind, the fear, the curiosity. Then there was nothing. Just an easy sense of emptiness, where all anxiety and worry were gone. He let out a sigh of relief—like obliviating children, it was notoriously difficult to place them under the Imperius Curse properly, and an improperly cast Imperius Curse ran the risk of addling the victim’s brains. He wanted the girl to come through this alive and sane. 

He had always hated the Imperius Curse on principle—taking away someone’s free will was wrong. He knew that better than anyone, serving two masters. He himself had been the victim of the Imperius Curse when he was seventeen and not yet able to throw it off easily. Some of the pureblood Death Eaters had found great amusement in making the uppity half-blood quite literally lick their boots. It didn’t take him long after that incident to learn how to throw the curse off. 

And now he was casting it on Lily’s precious daughter, whom she had given her life for. He hated himself. 

“Severus,” the Dark Lord said. “Send her to the corridor and follow her.” 

“As you wish, my lord,” he said. 

A faint sense of shock registered in the girl’s mind. He felt it through the connection, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. He willed the girl to leave the dungeon and go to the corridor, keeping his wand palmed in his hand, ready to cast curses the moment anything went awry. 

Thankfully, most of the students were still at dinner. He did not have to worry about them seeing the girl enter the forbidden corridor, nor him following her in. He passed only a few stragglers in the halls, and none of them seemed to pay him or the girl any mind. 

The girl hummed softly to herself. It was a subconscious, absent-minded thing; he couldn’t tell her to stop, because he only commanded her consciousness. The Imperius Curse could only control so much—for instance, commanding someone to quit breathing wouldn’t work for long, because eventually their subconscious would take over and force them to draw breath again. 

He stopped outside the door to the cerberus’s chamber, his hand resting against the knob. “And just how are we supposed to get past Hagrid’s beast?” 

“Music, Severus, can soothe the savage thing. Command the girl to keep humming, and we’ll be past the wretched thing soon enough.” 

He willed the girl to hum louder, and she responded. It was a simple, haunting tune, one he remembered from his childhood. His mother had used to sing it to him as a lullaby, but those were the days before he had shown signs of magic. Both his parents had wished him to be born a Muggle or Squib, whatever the proper term for a magicless half-blood was, and had responded with cruelty when he proved to be magical. Tobias had turned his fists to his son and wife, hating them both for possessing a gift he lacked. His mother, for her part, dearly loved Tobias and wanted only to please him, even if that meant having a Muggle son. Eileen Snape eventually accepted her son’s talents and told him small things about the world she wanted to forget when he begged to know more, but never again was she the mother who doted on her only son, for he had ruined any chance of a happy life with Tobias by inheriting her gift. 

Of all the bloody songs for the girl to pick. 

He opened the door slowly, watching as the dog blinked a bleary eye. Its brown eyes locked with Severus’s, but this time, the dog didn’t lunge at him, or flash its teeth at him. It hung its head, which drooped with drowsiness, before falling to the floor. The girl continued humming. Soon enough, the blasted beast was asleep, as harmless as a newborn puppy. 

Severus lifted its paw and pulled the trapdoor open. He ushered the girl through it before jumping down into the unknown himself. 

It didn’t take long for the four of them to get through the protections. Severus found it laughable that Dumbledore had ever thought them enough. A sufficiently motivated and intelligent first year would be capable of getting through all of them. Really, Devil’s Snare, a flying key, a chess board, a riddle—what were they thinking? If the Dark Lord could break into Gringotts, it was child’s play to get past these meager protections. Unless Dumbledore’s protection was something brilliant, they were doomed. He would either have to break his cover, or the Dark Lord would be returning tonight. As it was, he wasn’t even sure he could destroy the half-shade, half-being. 

So it was with these fearful thoughts he found himself standing for the Mirror of the Erised again. 

“What is this magic?” the Dark Lord hissed, the turban long-since removed. 

“It is the Mirror of the Erised, my lord,” Severus said. “It shows you your heart’s desire.” 

“Yes…the old fool would be fond of such magic. Tell me Severus, what do you see?” 

Severus looked into the mirror, at the boy-Severus and the little Lily again. Lily winked at him and threw an arm over the boy-Severus’s shoulder. She slipped a tiny hand inside the boy-Severus’s pocket, and then quickly removed it. Severus felt something heavy drop into his own pocket. 

His mouth went dry. He had the stone. It was that easy—he had no idea what to do now, other than baldly lie to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord could not know it, or he would be dead. 

“I-I see you, my lord. Returned to your former splendor. I am your right-hand, your most trusted lieutenant. We are in the Ministry…our goals have been accomplished.” 

A wry smile touched the thin mouth of the Dark Lord. “You always were an ambitious one, Severus. Find out how to get me the stone from this…artifact…and your heart’s desire shall become reality.” 

The damned thing would have safer where it was, but no, the mirror had to give it to him, somehow. He had no idea how the magic had worked, only that it had. He balled his hands into fists, then released them. He had to come up with something, something to stall the Dark Lord until Dumbledore returned and realized his protections had been breached. 

“What do you see, Quirinius?” the Dark Lord asked. 

“I see myself presenting you with the stone, my lord. My heart’s desire is to please you.” 

“Indeed,” the Dark Lord remarked dryly. “You seem to lack Severus’s larger ambitions. Then again, Quirinius, you always were just a means to an end. An easy body and a weak mind to bend to my will.” 

“My lord—” 

“Save your protestations. We both know they will be feeble and pointless. Lord Voldemort always speaks the truth to his servants. Your expediency does not take away your usefulness.” 

Silence reigned for several long minutes. Severus knew that once Quirrell was no longer useful, he would be discarded. The man was only two years younger than Severus—old enough to have joined the Death Eaters during the war. But he hadn’t. Severus knew Quirrell—the man had foolishly thought to use the Dark Lord as a means to an end, a means to achieve the glory he had long sought, and had become a tool himself. Put shortly, Quirrell was a fool, and the Dark Lord did not suffer fools gladly. Quirrell would be disposed of as soon as the Dark Lord had the chance. 

“M-My lord. Perhaps I can offer you a theory.” 

“Do not think to save yourself with words. You are a mediocre wizard with whom I share a body only because I have no choice. Perhaps I will spare you, Quirinius, or perhaps I will not.” 

“Y-yes, my lord. I-I think only to please you.” 

“Then speak.” 

“I-I only thought, maybe it has something to do with intent. Perhaps the stone can only be taken by one who is pure of heart.” 

A high, cold laugh sounded, and Severus’s stomach dropped. Perhaps not pure of heart, but Quirrell was onto something. Perhaps it could only be taken by someone who wished to protect the stone, and not use it. That would explain why it had been so, so easy to bypass Dumbledore’s last and greatest protection. He was a protector, he was trusted—that damnable old man, how could he trust him! Now that trust had doomed them, just as Severus had always said it would. 

“Yes, yes, perhaps I will spare you, my servant. You have pleased Lord Voldemort—that is exactly the sort of magic the old fool would turn to. Purity of heart. Luckily, we have just such an innocent among us. Severus, command the girl to stand before the mirror and tell us what she sees.” 

Severus did as he was told. There was no harm in it. The girl would tell them her schoolgirl fancies and perhaps be embarrassed for it later, if she even remembered anything. Meanwhile, and more importantly, it would stall for time. The Dark Lord’s attention to her would not be wrathful as long as she served a purpose. Severus knew this well from experience. 

The girl shuffled up to the mirror, standing in front of him. Severus watched her expression change in the mirror, turning from empty to wistful. His stomach churned with guilt. Not only was he violating her mind yet again, he was violating her heart. She would have no choice but to tell them her heart’s greatest desire. That was no small thing, even if it would just be something like winning the House Cup or becoming a professional Quidditch player. All thoughts of the harmlessness of schoolgirl fancies disappeared. 

“Tell us what you see,” Severus said. 

“Mum and dad,” she whispered, walking towards the mirror. She placed a hand on the cold surface, as if she could touch them. “She’s really pretty, even prettier than in the picture of her I got for Christmas. She has the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. She looks like me, only better. And there’s dad. I’ve only ever seen him in the mirror. He has messy hair, and twinkling hazel eyes, just like mine. Behind them are their parents, and their parent’s parents. They’re all waving at me, trying to make me smile. I wish they were here.” 

Severus swallowed. The girl saw Lily in the mirror too. This was no fleeting schoolgirl fancy, but a desire just as deep and desperate as his own. 

“Is there a stone?” the Dark Lord asked. 

“No,” she said. “Just them.” 

“Get her away from the mirror, Severus.” 

He willed the girl to move away from the mirror, and she, of course, did as she was bid. A terrible smile took over the Dark Lord’s half-formed face. “It seems Quirinius was wrong, Severus. But never fear, for I have a plan. Your curses always were among the strongest, save perhaps for dear Bellatrix.” 

“My lord?” 

“Curse the mirror, Severus. The worst that happens is it shatters. It is no longer a clue to the stone’s whereabouts, only an obstacle.” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

Severus drew his wand and pointed it at the mirror, his mouth dry. This mirror was a powerful magical artifact and cursing such artifacts was never simple. The Dark Lord knew this—that was why he would not risk his host on a whim. But Severus did not have the answers and was not playing host to whatever the Dark Lord now was, so he was disposable. 

But he couldn’t afford to tip his hand. The Dark Lord very well could return to full power tonight, and if not tonight another day, and when he did, the girl would need a protector at his right hand. He would just have to take his chances and hope that the backlash for cursing the mirror would not be such that he could not protect the girl. 

“ _Confringo_!” 

A jet of black flames flew from the end of his wand, colliding with the mirror. The roar of the spell echoed in the chamber, but Severus never heard it, because the spell was reflected back at him, striking him square in the chest. The force of it blasted him across the chamber. He fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. 

*HP* 

Hazel came back to herself with a start, just in time to see Professor Snape be blasted across the room by his own spell. She didn’t know where she was or how she got there, only that she was standing there with Quirrell, sans turban. The last thing she remembered was running to detention with Professor Snape— 

Who was lying on the ground, body contorted. She ran to him, all previous questions of his loyalties forgotten. Her premonition meant nothing compared to the reality before her—someone who had once saved her life was hurt. He had saved her life after those Gryffindor boys attacked her. She couldn’t believe she had lost sight of that, in her haste to find someone to blame for the broom incident. She had discarded him so easily, all for a vague dream she had had. 

She kneeled beside him, turning his body over, spreading his limbs out so he was not crumpled in on himself. She took stock of his injuries—his arm rested at an odd angle, and his breathing was shallow, but it seemed his nose got the worst of it, as it was now bent at an even odder angle than usual. She suspected he had landed on his face. 

Hazel shook his shoulder. “Wake up, Professor, please wake up!” 

“He won’t,” Quirrell said, his voice full of disdain. “He was hit by his own blasting curse—what kind of fool casts that at a mirror?” 

Hazel scowled. “He’s far smarter than you, P-p-professor Quirrell,” she said, mocking his stutter. 

A nasty smile formed on Quirrell’s face. “I think you’ll find we all wear our masks, foolish girl.” 

And then he turned around. 

Her dream came back to her—Voldemort, in the back of Quirrell’s head. It wasn’t just a premonition. It wasn’t just a dream. It was true. 

And now she was standing face to face with her parent’s murderer. 

His face was flat and snake-like, his face full of blue veins and his skin thinner than parchment. Hazel took an instinctive step back. This couldn’t be happening—she was utterly defenseless in front of one of the darkest wizards of living memory. She drew her wand, but knew it was useless. She didn’t know any curses, not real ones, not ones that would save her now. 

With a shaking hand, she pointed her wand at Voldemort, who was smiling. He laughed his high, cold laugh. “Go ahead, foolish child. Cast whatever curse you wish. You cannot harm me.” 

Hazel clutched her wand tighter but spoke no curse. 

“Perhaps you lack the nerve,” he said, smile creeping wider across his face. “Or perhaps you don’t know any curses. I will teach you one, child, before you die. Speak the words with me. _Crucio_.” 

“ _Crucio_ ,” she said, not knowing what it was supposed to do. 

“Now point your wand at our Quirinius. A quick stabbing motion. Filter all your hate through your wand. This pathetic man is the reason the reason I will return to power. The reason all your friends, all those who would have stood with you, will die. Think of your hate for me, child, the one who killed the parents your heart so desires. Do it.” 

“ _Crucio_ ,” she said, jabbing her wand at Quirrell. 

Voldemort smiled. “Just like your parents. They too lacked the nerve for real magic. You have to mean it, Hazel.” 

“I don’t want to hate,” she said, sounding braver than she felt. 

“But you do hate me. That is my power, Hazel. I inspire fear and hatred. Respect and devotion. People cannot help but react to me, and it gives me power. You and those you care about can only feed on the scraps I leave behind. You and those you love will meet the same end as your parents…they died begging me for mercy…” 

“You’re wrong!” Hazel said. “We have love and friendship. And you’re alone. All you have is Quirrell. And he’s nothing. I don’t know what you are, but you’re just a shadow of what you used to be. People may fear you, but they wouldn’t if they could see you now. You’re nothing, and you never will be again.” 

The smile fell from Voldemort’s face. “Quirinius,” he said. “I tire of the girl’s ranting drivel. Dispose of her.” 

Quirrell started to turn around, but Hazel was faster. She didn’t need her wand. She flung herself at the two-faced man in front of her, determined to knock him off balance. She didn’t care that she was not even five feet tall, nor a hundred pounds. She didn’t care that Quirrell was much larger, stronger. All that mattered was hurting him, taking his wand, somehow evening the score. Instinct told her that she could. 

She laid her hands on the half-being’s scaly face. Pain like she had never felt engulfed her scar, but she persisted, clawing at those milky eyes. Nothing mattered except for dying putting up a fight, proving the horrible Voldemort wrong. Her parents had not died begging, and neither would she. She would die like them, fighting. 

Voldemort cried out in pain, and Quirrell turned around, trying to seize her by the wrist. It felt as if her head was splitting in two. She struggled and struggled as Quirrell grabbed her, placed his hands around her neck. She pushed against him as hard as she could, and to her surprise, Quirrell was moving away from her. 

Quirrell stumbled backwards, falling to the ground, holding blistering fingers before his eyes. “Master, I cannot hold her—my hands—my hands!” 

Hazel pushed herself up, looking at Quirrell’s hands. They were burned, raw, red, and shiny. Hazel launched herself at Quirrell again, tackling him the rest of the way to the ground. She put her hands on his face, just as she had Voldemort’s. He brought his hands to his face, which was now blistering too. Hazel knew now, that Quirrell could not touch her bare skin, not without suffering for it. If she could just keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in pain, keep him on the ground— 

But the pain, the pain in her head, it was blinding, and it was only getting worse. All she could hear was her own whimpers, Quirrell’s terrible shrieks, and Voldemort’s commands to kill, to kill— 

And then another voice, maybe just in her head, crying, “Hazel, Hazel!” 

She felt a pair of strong arms wrench her off of Quirrell, and then she knew all was lost. She fell into blackness, unconsciousness, and knew no more. 

*HP* 

When he awoke, he could not move. An invisible force restrained him. He blinked, the only motion allowed him—he was in a full-body bind. His entire body tensed—wherever he was, he was completely helpless to whoever had cast the spell. It was not a feeling he enjoyed. He was all too familiar with how it felt to be helpless, vestiges of his harsh childhood. 

Somehow, he had survived. 

“Albus, he’s awake,” a familiar voice said. Poppy. He relaxed. The matron was a formidable witch in her own right and would not let any harm befall him, not while he was one of her charges. Poppy Pomfrey was one of the few people he trusted. 

But that didn’t explain why he was restrained. 

Then he heard a set of footsteps he had hoped never to hear again—the distinctive thumping of Alastor Moody. 

His body tensed again. They knew, knew that he had cast an Unforgiveable. But then again, how could they not know? The girl— 

Had somehow lived. If they knew he had obliviated her and imperiused her, then she was alive. 

Relief flooded through him. His last thoughts before he had lost consciousness had been of how he failed Lily, leaving her precious daughter defenseless in the company of that monster. But he hadn’t failed, and he hadn’t blown his cover as a spy either. For once, luck was on the side of Severus Snape. He would have liked to attribute it to skill, but he knew better. Where the Dark Lord was involved, only luck could save you. 

“Surely you can release him long enough to have a conversation, let him explain himself!” Poppy said. 

And just like that, he felt the spell lift. It felt as though a ton of bricks had been lifted off his chest. He immediately pushed himself upright and looked around the room, his eyes settling on a familiar redhead chatting with Dumbledore without a care in the world. The old man patted the girl’s leg and stood up. 

“Snape,” Moody said. 

Severus jerked his head. It wasn’t a nod, but an involuntary, instinctual movement. Moody always set him on edge—he had been one of his interrogators after his arrest, all those years ago. Moody walked the line between light and dark magic better than most and knew exactly which buttons to push. 

Then a blond man now hovering over the girl’s bed caught his eye. David Greengrass. It surprised him the two men were still partners after all these years—Greengrass was surely a senior auror by now. He considered the man for the moment—he was the same age as Severus, but looked younger, despite a large scar marring his handsome face. He said something to the girl, and she tossed her head back in laughter, just like Lily used to. 

“Greengrass,” Moody growled. “Quit fooling around with the girl and come here. Snape is awake.” 

Greengrass turned around, the smile falling from his face. “Right,” he said, striding across the room. He stopped beside Moody. 

“Now listen, Snape,” Moody growled. “You’re the only one who can tell us what happened down in that chamber. The girl can’t remember—she shows sign of the Imperius Curse. She says she only remembers what happened after you were knocked out, which points to you being the one performing the curse.” 

“I—” he began, starting to protest. 

“Severus,” Dumbledore said. “You can tell them.” 

“I did it for Dumbledore,” he said. 

“You’re saying Dumbledore told you to use the Imperius Curse on Miss Potter?” 

“No,” he said. “The Dark Lord was inhabiting Quirrell’s body and they approached me for help.” 

“I wonder why they did that,” Greengrass murmured. 

Ignoring the jibe, Severus continued. “Dumbledore told me to play along, so I would be in a position to help the girl from within the Dark Lord’s ranks when he returns.” 

“If he returns,” Greengrass said. 

“No. When. The Dark Lord seldom fails to achieve something he puts his mind to, and it is even rarer when it is something of great import.” 

“Then why did you come crawling back to our side, Snape?” Moody said. 

“Alastor,” Dumbledore said. “We have already spoken on this matter. I trust Severus.” 

“Even after he performed an Unforgivable on a student, claiming it was at your request? Hell, he was probably the one who obliviated the girl too—” 

Severus looked away guiltily. 

“He doesn’t even deny it, Albus! We have to take him in for a trial, rather he’s under your protection or not. He’s nothing but Death Eater scum--he deserves to be tossed in Azkaban and forgotten about!” 

“No, he doesn’t,” a small voice said. 

Severus turned his eyes to the source. It was the girl, standing before them pale-faced and shaky, the too-large hospital gown making her look younger than her eleven years. Severus looked away from her—Moody was right. He didn’t deserve Dumbledore’s trust. He was a horrible person for violating the girl’s mind. And now here the girl was, taking up for him. He wondered if Lily would have done so, but he doubted it—after all, she hadn’t forgiven him for one slip of the tongue. 

“Professor Snape saved my life,” she said. “I’ve figured it out, why Hermione saw him muttering when my broom tried to buck me—he was casting a counter curse. Am I right, professor?” 

Severus nodded curtly. 

“And then there was the time before that. He found me after those Gryffindors attacked me. I would have died if he hadn’t found me. And those are just the times I know about. I trust Professor Snape.” 

A lump had lodged itself in his throat. The girl was speaking on his behalf—if she understood the magnitude of his crimes, she surely wouldn’t, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. If she could keep him out of Azkaban, he would take it. 

“He violated your mind, your personal autonomy. He did it not once, but twice, Hazel,” Greengrass said. 

“I know,” she said. “But he didn’t do it to be evil—he’s done nothing but protect me.” 

Dumbledore smiled. “See, Alastor, David, nobody was harmed. Surely you don’t need to take Severus to Azkaban when even the victim is advocating for his release.” 

“Be that as it may, procedure is procedure,” Moody said. “Get up, Snape. You’re coming with me.” 

Severus pushed himself up and scooted out of bed. He swallowed. He couldn’t go back to Azkaban, he couldn’t. It would kill him. But he wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t beg. Not in front of the girl. He had to be strong. 

“Just get it over with, then,” he said, with more bravado than he felt. 

Greengrass cast a spell. Thick cords of rope bound his wrists together. He shuffled out of the room behind the two aurors, still clad in nothing but a hospital gown. He was going back to Azkaban, unless Dumbledore could work another miracle.


	11. Chapter 11

He was cold, colder than he had been for years. The chill of Azkaban ran to his very bones. Tears were frozen to his face. “Mudblood,” his own voice taunted him. “It’s too late,” Lily’s voice said. Then he saw her dead body again, red hair splayed about her head, unseeing green eyes staring off at the ceiling of her ruined home, a little infant crying from the crib behind where she had fallen. Dumbledore saying, “You disgust me.” 

He disgusted himself. 

He didn’t know how long he had been there, only that he had not yet had his trial. When he first came to this wretched place, he had hoped he would not be here long, that Dumbledore and the girl would somehow rescue him. But the Dementors had drained that happy thought long ago. No longer was there hope, only the dim knowledge that judgment was coming, one way or another. 

Pushing himself to his feet, standing on shaky legs, he walked towards the bars that confined him. He took note of the Dementor hovering outside his door, not that he had ever forgotten its ominous presence. It turned its gaze towards him and pointed a scaly, grey finger at him. The message was clear. Get away from the bars. Severus did as he was commanded, but not before he heard the creature take a rattling breath. 

The air suddenly became much colder. He wrapped his arms around himself as he sunk back down to the floor, desperate to save some of his own warmth. But it was no use. The chill the dementor’s brought was no natural cold. 

A mad cackle sounded in the cell next to his, and he instantly knew who it was. Bellatrix. She had been deranged before Azkaban—he could only imagine what she would be like now, after ten long years—or had it been more now? He had lost all sense of time. 

“Who’s the new prisoner?” she said, laughing. The dementors took another sucking breath, and Severus sunk further into himself, but the witch only laughed louder. “I saw you bring him in.” 

The Dementor turned to face her, gliding towards her cell. He could tell from the sound of her voice that she was at the bars. No footsteps sounded—evidently, she was not cowed by the dementors. 

“New boy,” she said. “Or were you just a flat-chested girl? I couldn’t tell, it was too dark. Answer me. You won’t like it when the Dark Lord breaks me out of here, if you don’t talk to me. I heard you screaming last night, so I know you’re there.” 

Severus considered this for a moment. If the Dark Lord did indeed break them out, it would seem odd for him not to seem gleeful at the prospect. There was no one here to hear besides the dementors, and they could not speak his secrets. 

“Severus Snape,” he said, his voice hoarse. 

The laughter returned. “Oh, Sevy, whatever have you done? Did Dumbledore finally tire of having a reformed lapdog?” 

“No,” he said. “Th-the old fool will surely be coming for me.” 

“You’ve been here a month, Sevy. That old man has finally gotten tired of you. The Dark Lord is our only hope. Now tell me, what have you done?” 

A month? That’s all that it had been? Hope blossomed in his chest for a spectacular moment, forming faster than the dementors could suck it away. A month. He had been here longer than that last time. There was still hope that Dumbledore could work his magic and get him out of here. 

“I used the Imperius Curse on Hazel Potter and obliviated her.” 

Bellatrix laughed again. “Oh, Sevy, what did you make her do? The possibilities are _delicious_. Tell me, tell me!” 

“I made her help us try to steal the sorcerer’s stone for the Dark Lord,” he muttered. “It didn’t work. I obliviated her to protect a secret she shouldn’t have been privy to.” 

“Surely you could have come up with something more fun than that? But then, you never did have a sense of humor.” 

He was something of a running joke in the Death Eaters for his lack of joy in the torture of Muggles and Muggle-borns. They said his father’s impure blood had addled his brains. He had only once been allowed a Muggle to torture, but he found himself unable to muster the hatred required to perform the Cruciatus Curse on some random Muggle. His “magical impotency” made him a laughingstock, though the Dark Lord forgave him for this failing because he made such useful potions and was skilled in obliviation and legilimency. Despite his proclivities for dark magic, he never had the stomach for torture, having been on the receiving end too many times. 

“Not all of us can cackle at our own torture, Bellatrix,” he remarked dryly. 

“Not all of us can survive it, either.” 

*HP* 

“I want to see him,” Hazel said. 

Dumbledore smiled sadly. “I daresay he won’t be in any condition to see you, my girl. Azkaban will have left its mark on him.” 

“I want to let him know I don’t blame him for anything. I’m thankful, really. He saved my life twice, at least, and who’s to say Quirrell wouldn’t have just killed me if Professor Snape hadn’t been there?” 

“I can pass along the message for you,” he said kindly. 

“Please, professor,” she said. “I’d really like to see him. I think it’ll mean more coming from me.” 

Dumbledore smiled again. “It’s good to see Severus inspires such loyalty within his house.” 

“He’s good to me, professor,” she said. “I just wish…” she trailed off, not wishing to elaborate further. She liked Professor Snape, despite his flaws. It would seem terrible to criticize a man who had been more than punished for them. 

Dumbledore peered over his glasses. “You can tell me, Hazel. I assure you I will not think less of you.” 

“I just wish he wasn’t so horrible to everyone else!” she blurted out. “I don’t understand it. He’s perfectly civil to me, but he calls Hermione a know-it-all all the time, even when she’s quiet. And he’s horrible to poor Neville! He can be such a bully—why am I any different?” 

The sad smile returned. “I’ll think you’ll find we all respond to great sorrow differently, my dear girl. Professor Snape has not led an easy life. I cannot make excuses for his behavior, other than state he has his reasons for being who he is.” 

“But why is he like that?” 

“I cannot tell you, for I would be breaking his confidence. I hope that one day he will tell you himself.” 

Hazel nodded. If she told Dumbledore a secret, she wouldn’t want him to go blabbing it to anyone who asked. She wasn’t happy about it, but she knew arguing further would get her nowhere, so she decided not to press further. If Dumbledore hoped Professor Snape would tell her himself, then perhaps he would one day. 

Hazel followed Dumbledore out of the Ministry. Passersby stopped to stare at them—her lightning bolt scar was clearly visible over her brow, and Dumbledore was always an impressive sight on his own. Seeing the two of them together was certain to draw the attention of most witches and wizards. She drew closer to the headmaster, as if he could shield her from the scrutiny of all these strangers. He didn’t seem bothered by the attention in the least, as he was humming a soft waltz to himself. 

“Professor, are you sure I can’t see him?” 

“I am certain. He would not want you to see him in such a state as he will be in. Now, how about some ice cream before we apparate back to your aunt and uncle’s home?” 

*HP* 

“Albus,” Severus gasped, as Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder. Severus flinched away from it, and Dumbledore let him. 

“Severus, my boy,” he said sadly, fishing in the pocket of his robes. He produced a piece of half-melted chocolate, which Severus gladly took. He popped it into his mouth, letting the warmth run through him. He hadn’t had anything but cold broth since Moody and Greengrass had taken him to Azkaban. 

Dumbledore reached for Severus’s arm and held on tightly. “I’m going to take us to a cottage dear Nicolas left me, Severus. I think you’ll find it quite nice.” 

“Take me home,” Severus rasped. “If you don’t, I’ll just apparate myself there later.” 

“I think not, my boy. I’ll be staying with you.” 

“Albus…” 

“It is no trouble, Severus. I’m long overdue a vacation. I do look forward to wearing one of those shirts you always get me for Christmas.” 

Severus let out a small laugh. “They’re lurid enough for you.” 

Dumbledore reached for his robes and hiked them up to reveal a pair of neon green socks. “A gift from Minerva,” he said. 

"We all know you, Albus.” 

With a smile, Severus grasped Dumbledore’s arm, allowing himself to be whisked away to wherever it was that Dumbledore wished them to go. 

They appeared at the door of an old stone cottage, one that looked more than a century old. It was stately and dignified for a building so small, but also welcoming. Even better, in Severus’s mind, was that it was secluded—no other homes were in sight. He wondered if the Flamels had owned the entirety of the land he saw—this would surely be prime real estate now, the house overlooking a sandy beach from a cliffside. He could see why Dumbledore had picked this spot for his recovery; he already felt a sense of peace settling over him, with the sound of gently rolling waves filling the air. 

He followed Dumbledore into the cottage, casting one look over his shoulder to look at the setting sun. When he turned around, he saw a warm, welcoming fire crackling in the fireplace, despite the warm weather outside. Dumbledore must have been there earlier, before he came and retrieved him. Heat was one of the ways to combat the aftereffects of the dementors. 

He started to sit down on the sofa, but hesitated. He still wore his prison robes, and they were covered in the grime of Azkaban. 

“I have brought you some robes and a dressing gown, my boy. Your room is the first down the hall on the right.” 

Severus nodded. It was just like Dumbledore to think of everything and to know his thoughts before he had even articulated them. Dumbledore was the one person in his life he trusted absolutely, without reservation. There was no one else he would be comfortable with seeing him so vulnerable. Put simply, there was no one else of import in his life, no one else to run to when things got bad. Not that he ever did any of the running—he was too used to suffering in silence. 

He shuffled off down the hall and changed into some flannel pants before collapsing onto the bed. His last conscious thoughts were that he really ought to thank Albus for all the trouble he had gone to, but he drifted into oblivion before such an impulse was even fully formed. 

When he awoke, he found Albus stroking his beard thoughtfully over a piece of parchment in the study. He sat down in an armchair, crossing his legs and pulling his dressing gown tightly around himself. Albus looked up and smiled at him. 

“Have you had breakfast? Masie made the most delightful blueberry pancakes this morning.” 

Severus shook his head. “Not hungry.” 

Dumbledore peered over his glasses but said nothing further. Severus scowled. The infuriating man didn’t need to say anything further to make him feel like a scolded schoolboy. He knew that as soon as they finished here, he would go eat some of those damn pancakes just to appease the old man. He really wasn’t hungry—Azkaban and the dementors were too fresh in his mind for him to want to eat anything at all. 

“What are you reading?” 

“A letter from Miss Greengrass. It seems that neither she nor Miss Granger have heard from Miss Potter, despite promises to write. Now I receive a letter informing me Miss Potter has performed underage magic.” 

“What?” 

“It seems unlikely to me that Miss Potter would so easily forsake her friends. I was thinking of paying Petunia a visit to ensure all is well. Hazel mentioned none of this when I saw her yesterday.” 

“ _Petunia_?” 

“Yes, the former Miss Evans.” 

“Petunia, you left the girl with Petunia? She hates everything magical!” 

Dumbledore smiled sadly. “I had hoped her love for her sister would take precedence over her dislike of the magical.” 

“She called her own sister a freak! There was no love, not by the end of it. How could you leave the girl there, of all places? They would hate her!” 

“All this concern for James Potter’s daughter?” Albus said, raising a brow. 

Severus balled his hands into fists. “Lily’s daughter.” 

“Forgive me, Severus. I merely remember it was only a year ago you were raving about how James Potter’s daughter would ruin your peaceful existence.” 

“She has,” Severus muttered. 

“But that is no longer a problem for you?” 

“What are you getting at? That I like the girl? The very thing you’ve always wanted?” 

“No, my boy. What I want is for you to see the child as her own person and like or dislike her on her own merits. But she is a rather delightful and engaging girl.” 

“I know she’s not Lily!” he protested. 

The sad smile returned. “I’m not sure you do, my dear boy.” 

Severus fumed silently. He knew the girl wasn’t Lily. His brains weren’t addled, not even by Azkaban. The girl was a walking, talking reminder of what he had lost, what he had destroyed. As if the reminder of his failure wasn’t enough, she had those damned, mischievous hazel eyes. She was a rule breaker too, just like her father, but so very much like Lily too. Lily had been curious and had pulled him into more schemes than he could possibly remember, just like the girl seemed to do to her friends. The girl took up for the bullied, just like Lily. The girl cared about him, him of all people, just like Lily. 

But she wasn’t Lily. He knew that. 

Dumbledore stood up from his seat and said, “Alas, I must leave to deal with this situation. I can’t have young Miss Potter be a prisoner in the place she is supposed to call home. Although I would have hoped she would have confided in me yesterday if that was the case.” 

Severus shot to his feet. “No, let me. I’ve never got to make my peace with _Tuney_. I never saw her after Lily stopped talking to me.” 

Albus’s eyes twinkled. “As long as making your peace doesn’t involve hexing Muggles, Severus.” 

A smirk creeped across his face. “Not that you’ll know about, Albus.” 

*HP* 

Hazel lay in bed crying. Last night was one of the worst nights of her life—Aunt Petunia had slapped her and shaved her head, then Uncle Vernon had screamed at her for an hour, all while Dudley watched, smirking. The Dursleys usually confined themselves to neglect but had laid hands on her on infrequent occasions that were becoming more and more frequent. It was usually just a slap here and there and the occasional swing of a frying pan. She had told herself that she could make it until she was seventeen, that she only had to stay with them for the summers, that she would be able to go stay with Hermione or Daphne, but now everything seemed so remote. Thanks to Dobby, she hadn’t even talked to them all summer—it would be a wonder if they ever forgave her for that. 

One look in the mirror told the story of the harsh month she had lived under the Dursley’s care: a black eye from Aunt Petunia slapping her the night before, showing ribs from too many missed meals, numerous bruises from Dudley and his friends, shorn hair because of Petunia’s attentions—the litany of small injuries and abuses went on and on. She had been able to hide them from Dumbledore yesterday, but now it would be clear to anyone that looked at her that something had happened to her. 

A sharp rap sounded on her door. She tried her best to silence her sniffling and wiped at her eyes. She didn’t want those bastards to get the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She refused to show them any weakness. She looked in the mirror, at her red nose and red eyes. There was nothing she could do about it now, besides put on a brave face. She may not have been brave enough for the hat to put her in Gryffindor, but she was brave enough to face Lord Voldemort—she could survive these horrible Muggles. 

“Up! I want you to fix us breakfast, then back to your room.” 

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” she said. Hazel didn’t bother changing out of her pajamas, if Dudley’s hand-me-down t-shirt and sweatpants could even be called that. The only one who would see her would be Aunt Petunia, and the woman delighted in telling her how ugly she was. She thought longingly of the beautiful green robes Daphne had bought her for Christmas. Hazel knew she was not as feminine as many girls, but she did like to feel pretty too, and right now she just felt like an ugly wretch. 

Hazel slunk out of her bedroom, careful on the creaky steps; it wouldn’t do to wake Uncle Vernon or Dudley and incite their wrath. Uncle Vernon never struck her—he would silently watch as Dudley or Petunia did so. For that she was grateful. She could handle the intimidating man screaming at her until his veins pulsed and he turned purple in the face, but she didn’t want to imagine how it would feel to have such a large man strike her. His tool of choice was words, bluster, and ignoring her. She got the impression he hated magic more than he hated her personally, but that he also feared magic as an unknown as well. For Petunia and Dudley, their hatred was more directed at her personally. 

“Ugly girl,” Petunia said, wrinkling her nose. “Just like your mother. I’ve already set out the ingredients for you. You’d best not burn them.” 

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Hazel said in the monotone voice she had long ago perfected. She started to fry the bacon that had been prepared for her, while cooking the sausage and preparing the scrambled eggs. She fried some tomatoes and mushrooms, her stomach growling. She knew Petunia was watching her and that any filching of food would be spotted. She also knew she would be lucky to get any of it. She cleaned the dishes as she went, knowing better than to leave a mess. She had just placed the last of the food on the table when she heard a knock on the door. 

Aunt Petunia stood up from table, muttering something about solicitors. Hazel smirked, slipping a mushroom into her mouth. Anyone who could annoy Aunt Petunia was alright in her books. When she heard the cry of “YOU!” she knew that whoever was at the door was no solicitor—it had to be someone she knew and disliked deeply—even better. 

She heard some thundering footsteps above her, and then the same footsteps coming down the stairs. Aunt Petunia’s shriek must have awoken the sleeping man and boy upstairs. “The bloody hell—at this hour—” Uncle Vernon said. 

Hazel peeked out of the kitchen, hoping to catch a glimpse of the stranger. It was no use—Aunt Petunia was blocking his entry while the door blocked his face. She only saw Uncle Vernon’s massive form obscuring her aunt’s, and then Dudley standing behind them with a smirk on his face. He clearly thought his mother and father could handle whoever the stranger was. 

Curious as she was, sense departed Hazel. She knew she would pay dearly for showing her face later, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Life at the Dursleys had reached an all-time low. So she squeezed past Uncle Vernon and Dudley, which was no easy feat with the latter trying to trip her. Then she caught sight of the stranger. 

“Professor Snape!” she said. It was all she could do to resist hugging him—the stern man surely would not appreciate such a gesture. But anything at all from the magical world brought joy to her, even the forbidding Professor Snape. But he himself was a welcome sight—she had helped rescue him from prison, after all, and had wanted to know how he was doing. 

Dumbledore, of course, was right. He did look rather the worse for wear. His hair was longer and greasier than she had ever seen it and his teeth more yellow. Always a thin man, he looked even thinner now. The only thing about him that seemed to have changed for the better was the spark of mischief in his black eyes. 

“Hello, Tuney,” he said. 

Hazel stifled a giggle— _Tuney_? 

Aunt Petunia stiffened, but a nasty smile crossed her face. “I suppose it makes sense you would come here for the girl. You always did follow her mother around like a puppy—couldn’t have the mother, so now you want the daughter. I always knew you were a freak of the worst kind. What else could you be with parents like yours?” 

Now it was Professor Snape’s turn to stiffen. Hazel sensed Petunia had scored a point. But any sign of discomfort disappeared as quickly as it had come. Professor Snape leaned forward with a wicked smile. “Didn’t your sister tell you what I am?” 

Petunia paled. “You’ll always just be that horrible boy from Spinner’s End to me.” 

In a flash, Professor Snape pushed inside, drawing his wand. “I think you’ll find me rather more formidable than I was.” He slammed the door behind him. Uncle Vernon and Dudley cowered at the sight of a wand, but Petunia continued to eye him determinedly. 

“You can’t hurt us,” she said smugly. “The old man told us so.” 

Hazel peeked out from behind Uncle Vernon and Dudley, trying to catch another look at Professor Snape. She took comfort in his presence, knowing that he would not allow any sort of harm to befall her. But when she did, he caught sight of her for the first time—his expression changed from taunting to thunderous. 

He pointed his wand at Aunt Petunia’s throat. “What have you and that oaf of a husband done to the girl?” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

“N-nothing she didn’t deserve!” 

“Deserve!” he shouted, grabbing Hazel by the wrist yanking her forward. “What could a child do to deserve this?” he said gesturing towards her blackened eye and the distinctive hand-shaped bruise on her face. 

“She and Diddykins were just playing rough. The girl has no sense of decorum,” she sneered. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “I can tell.” 

Hazel had always had the sinking suspicion that Professor Snape could read minds. He would know everything about how the Dursleys treated her worse than the scum of the earth, the long years of neglect, the cupboard, everything. The very things she wanted no one at Hogwarts to know of or even suspect. Because if they didn’t know, she could make a fresh start and maybe even pretend herself that things at home weren’t so bad. But now even that illusion had been destroyed—Professor Snape knew. 

His eyes flicked towards the cupboard. He _definitely_ knew. 

“A cupboard, Tuney?” he whispered. “Ten long years, in a cupboard? Lily’s daughter? Lily would have treated your lump of a son as if he was her very own!” 

“Yes, you always did think Lily was a saint. Worshipped the ground she walked on. You never had to deal with her at home. She was nothing more than an arrogant show-off bitch and she got what she—” 

Sparks flew from the end of Professor Snape’s wand, causing Aunt Petunia to shrink back and Dudley to shriek. 

“NONE OF THAT NONSENSE IN MY HOME!” Uncle Vernon roared. 

“Be quiet, Dursley. You’re about to find yourself on the receiving end of something much worse than a few sparks. _Rode_ —” 

Hazel shot forward, grabbing the professor’s wand arm. “No, Professor!” she shouted. 

He looked at her incredulously, his wand still raised, she holding on pathetically. 

“These _people_ abused you,” he spat. “They deserve whatever I give them.” 

“I won’t deny that,” Hazel said softly. “But you don’t deserve to go to prison for it. They’re not worth that. I’m not worth that.” 

Hazel chanced looking into the professor’s eyes, a fire blazing there. He looked as if he wanted to argue, but he lowered his wand. The look of passion was gone as quickly as it came. “As you wish,” he said, stowing his wand in his pocket. Hazel looked at him warily, not quite convinced it was as easy as that. 

“I suppose I’ll just have to call the police,” he said, a nasty smile on his face. 

“No!” Aunt Petunia said. 

“Yes, Tuney,” he said. “And all the neighbors will know you’re nothing but a nasty woman who gets off on abusing children.” 

“Listen here—” Uncle Vernon began. 

“No, you listen, Dursley. You’ve known everything about what goes on in this house and have been party to it. You may never have struck the girl yourself, but you were only too happy to let your wife and son do it for you. Neglect can damage children just as much as abuse—it is abuse in another form. So you’ll not get a free pass simply because you never touched the girl. You will go to prison. Your wife will go to prison. Your son will be put into foster care and be better off for it, if a decent family can undo the damage you’ve done to him.” 

“Daddy!” Dudley whimpered. 

“Don’t worry, Dud,” Uncle Vernon said. “This nasty man has got it all wrong.” Uncle Vernon reached to grab Professor Snape by the top of his shirt, but his wand was out again. 

“Touch me and you’ll regret it, Dursley. Let’s not forget what I am capable of. Now you’ll go to your sitting room and calmly wait while I call the police. Any attempt to harm me or Hazel will be met with magical restraint—and don’t think I won’t do it. Wizards can use magic on Muggles in self-defense.” 

Sans his usual swirl of robes, Professor Snape stormed out of the entryway, in search of a phone. Hazel jogged to reach him and put a gentle hand on his arm, ignoring how he flinched away from her. “There’s one in the kitchen, professor,” she said, leading him to it. 

She watched as he dialed and sat down at the table. Life was about to change again—hopefully for the better.


	12. Chapter 12

Severus looked at the girl in behind him, beaming at him. He couldn’t understand why she always seemed so happy to see him—no one except for Albus and possibly Minerva ever took pleasure in his company. He supposed he would have to add the girl to that short list now. Then again, perhaps it was only natural that she feel some affinity for him now, despite his caustic manner—he had saved her life twice and now had saved her from her relatives’ abuse. 

She was a pathetic sight, dressed in clothes that surely used to belong to that walrus of a boy. The shaven head didn’t help—the girl looked ridiculous, like a boy several years younger than eleven. And for the first time since he had met her, the resemblance to Lily wasn’t so obvious. Lily had always kept her hair in long carefree waves, just like the girl had. But he found himself aching for that painful resemblance, because he knew it should be there. He didn’t want to see sad, too-prominent hazel eyes peering out at him from Lily’s face. 

He was furious at Dumbledore—how had he missed the obvious signs of abuse, the little bruises that littered her tiny arms, the ever-so-slight limp she was trying to hide as she struggled to keep up with his long strides? Oh, that old man was going to get a piece of his mind. Dumbledore had seen her just the day before, and hadn’t been able to put his near omniscience to use yet again? He would be forever grateful to both the girl and Dumbledore for getting him out of Azkaban, but even that knowledge could not soothe his growing anger, at both Dumbledore and the Dursleys. 

“Professor,” the girl said, panting. “Can you slow down?” 

He shortened his strides but did not stop. They needed to get to Arabella Figg’s house to use the floo. She lived only a short distance away, but all the neighbors were gawking at him and the girl. They had all seen the police cars, the Dursleys being taken away. Severus smirked. If the pair of them somehow weaseled out of the charges levied against them, then at least they would never be able to return to their idyllic life on Privet Drive—not without whispers of this day hounding them wherever they went. 

Soon enough they reached Wisteria Walk. Here only a few people craned their necks to get a look at him and the girl. He looked towards Number Nine, where he knew the Figg woman would be waiting. He had not seen her for many years, not since the last Order meeting. She had been a battered old woman then and was an even more battered old woman now. She smiled at them, yellowed, crooked teeth on full display. She shuffled down from her front porch and threw her arms around the girl. 

“Oh, Hazel!” she said, clutching the wide-eyed girl to her chest. “It’s my fault—all these years I’ve been watching you—I should have known!” 

“Mrs. Figg?” 

The old woman straightened her back and dabbed at her eyes. “Yes, I’m a member of the—” 

“She knows the…order of things…Miss Potter. She is a squib. Now let us go inside.” 

He pushed his way past the old woman and girl, hoping none of the neighbors overheard their conversation. Honestly, that Figg woman, nearly telling the girl about the Order. It was supposed to be a secret, except from those who needed to know. And the girl most definitely did not need to know—not at eleven years old. 

“What’s a squib?” the girl asked once they were all inside. 

“A non-magical person born into a magical family. Rather the opposite of a Muggle-born.” 

“Oh,” she said. 

“In any case, Arabella has been kind enough to lend the headmaster use of her fireplace. We will be using the floo network to travel to a safe destination.” 

“Where are we going? Can I go to Daphne’s? Or Hermione’s? There was this house elf, and I haven’t heard from them in ages. I’d—” 

“No, Miss Potter. We are going to a cottage the headmaster owns, until appropriate guardians can be found for you.” 

The girl visibly deflated. He couldn’t really blame her—at her age, all he had wanted to do was spend time with Lily. He would have gone mad not hearing from her for a month, with only his family for company. But she would be able to write her friends soon enough—her owl was already en route to Flamel Cottage. 

He made his way to the fireplace and sneezed. He had loved cats as a child—there were no shortage of abandoned cats near Spinner’s End—but had quickly discovered he was allergic to them. He had been in the house only a few minutes and his eyes were already watering. A cat rubbed itself against his legs. He resisted the urge to reach down and scratch behind its ears—getting close to the blasted things would only make matters worse. 

“Now, Miss Potter,” he said, reaching for the jar of floo powder. “Take a handful of this powder, and stand in the fireplace. Throw the powder down and clearly enunciate ‘Flamel Cottage.’ Step out of the fireplace when you arrive—the headmaster will be waiting for you.” 

“Yes, professor,” the girl said, reaching for the powder. To his relief, the girl followed his directions and went through the fireplace without incident. After a minute had elapsed, he followed her through, ready to be out of this cat-infested house. 

*HP* 

“Hello, Hazel,” Dumbledore said, a sad but genial smile twitching into life underneath his beard. “Forgive me for saying so, but you look rather different from when I last saw you.” 

Hazel looked up into his face. “A lot can happen in a day,” she said flippantly. She preferred not to think about the Dursleys at all, let alone talk about them, and she had done a lot of both with the police officers today. She knew it was necessary if she never wanted to see them again, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. 

She started to run a hand through her hair, but stopped short, remembering it was gone. Seized by an idea, she turned to Dumbledore. “Professor…is there a spell that can regrow my hair?” 

Dumbledore’s smile broadened. “There is indeed. Would you like me to cast it for you?” 

“Yes sir!” 

With a flick of his wand, Dumbledore cast the spell. She felt wisps of hair tickling her ears, then her neck. She shook her head, delighting in the familiar weight of her hair. After a moment or two, Dumbledore flicked his wand again, ending the spell. Hazel picked a strand up and laid it across her front—it reached her waist. Her hair was now longer than it ever had been. There had been that disastrous incident where Aunt Petunia cut off all her hair and it had grown back—after that, she had confined herself to trimming it when it got too long for her tastes. 

“Thank you!” Hazel said. “Aunt Petunia tried it once before, when I was about six, but it grew back on its own. I wonder why that didn’t happen this time.” 

“Accidental magic becomes rarer the older you become,” he said. “Although it still happens to the best of us on rare occasions, when our emotions are particularly strong. 

“Have—” 

Hazel was cut off when the fireplace roared to life. A sneezing Professor Snape exited the fireplace. Hazel supposed he must be allergic to cats—he had been fine before the entered Mrs. Figg’s house. He dusted himself off and then sat down on the sofa, beside Dumbledore. “Blasted cat-obsessed woman,” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes before sneezing again. 

“I myself find cats to be delightful companions,” Dumbledore said. 

“Yes, you would,” Professor Snape said. 

Hazel sat down in an armchair across from the old sofa. She was free of the Dursleys at long last, but what now? Who would take her in? Thoughts of a Weasley-esque family came to mind, one where she would have no shortage of protectors and friends. Maybe Daphne’s family would take her in, or Hermione’s. Curiosity and trepidation burned it her—what if it was someone as awful as the Dursleys? 

“What happens to me now?” she asked, unable to wait any longer. 

Dumbledore and Professor Snape exchanged a look. It was Dumbledore who spoke. “It was imperative you stay with your relatives until you came of age. The very blood protection which saved you from Quirrell was dependent upon you calling a place where your mother’s blood dwells home.” 

“I have to go back?” Hazel said, her voice small. 

“Absolutely not,” Professor Snape said. 

Dumbledore raised a crooked old hand. “I was not suggesting you return to the hands of Petunia and Vernon Dursley. I believe that your cousin will suffice for blood protection.” 

“Dudley?” 

“Yes, the young Mr. Dursley.” 

“The boy is as bad as his parents! They let him hit her, and he liked doing it. He’s nothing but a bully, Albus, and the girl—” 

“Severus,” he said. “You ought to know that the misdeeds of a young boy are hardly irreparable sins.” 

Professor Snape scowled. Hazel had never seen anyone manage to silence Professor Snape—it was an odd sight. 

“So I have to live with Dudley? Who will we live with?” Thoughts of “Aunt” Marge immediately came to mind. She shivered at the thought of staying with the harsh woman—not that she would ever have her. Even Dumbledore’s magic had its limits. 

“I had rather thought myself up to such a task,” Dumbledore said. 

“What?” said Hazel, at the same time as Professor Snape. 

Dumbledore smiled. “If you would be willing to have me as your guardian, Hazel, I would gladly have you as my ward.” 

“Of course!” Hazel cried. She didn’t know Dumbledore as well as her other professors—it struck her that she didn’t really know him at all. But what little she knew told her that having him as her guardian would be a vast improvement on the Dursleys. He cared, she knew that much. He would help her. He wouldn’t hit her, ignore her, hate her. Everyone whose opinion mattered liked and trusted Dumbledore: Hermione, Daphne, Professor McGonagall, even Professor Snape. She trusted her instincts and the opinions of those she cared about—Dumbledore was a good man. The only damper on her elation at the prospect of being Dumbledore’s ward was that Dudley would be too. 

Dumbledore clasped his hands. “Now that that’s all settled, it’s time for you to go to bed, Hazel. Severus and I have much to discuss.” 

*HP* 

As soon as the door to the girl’s bedroom shut, Severus cast _muffliato_ rubbed his eyes and hissed, “What the hell are you thinking?” 

“That I would be the most appropriate guardian for young Hazel and Dudley.” 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Albus was a planner, but he suspected that here he had acted on impulse, without regards for repercussions. He couldn’t just become the guardian of a student—it wasn’t done, it was favoritism. But of course the stubborn old man favored his most-loved pawn. It was one thing for teacher’s to have family of blood in the school with them, but another thing to make a family of choice once the child in question was already a student. 

“You can’t just adopt a student!” 

“I am already her magical guardian, Severus. As soon as they heard of the prophecy, Lily and James decided I was the best one to step in in the event of their demise. Even had Sirius Black raised the girl, I would have had a hand in it. Hazel needed the blood wards, but now she needs a guardian who can prepare her for what is to come.” 

“She’s not a bloody soldier! She’s an eleven-year-old child!” 

“I know that, my boy. But it is the duty of every parent to prepare their child to face the world, and Hazel’s world will be rather more difficult to face than others. There is none more suitable to prepare her to face Voldemort than myself.” 

Severus grasped at his arm and paled even further. “So you believe the prophecy is true?” 

“The prophecy has power because Tom gave it power and continues to give it power.” 

“That’s no answer and you know it.” Severus knew Albus would never tell him more about the prophecy—and he didn’t want him to. If the Dark Lord ripped the knowledge from his mind, it would be disastrous for everyone, but most especially the girl who lay asleep a few rooms over. And he already hated himself enough for marking the Potters; he didn’t need to know more about it to know he had done wrong. 

Albus smiled, enigmatic as ever. “The prophecy will become known to Hazel in due time, Severus. She is too young to understand the complexities of divination and time and the truth of her fate is much too heavy for one so young to bear. I ask you do not mention this to her until I tell her of it.” 

“Tell her what? That she’s the one destined to kill the Dark Lord? I hate to break it to you, Albus, but I think the scar on her head gave that one away.” 

“She does not need to know of the prophecy at this time,” he said, his blue eyes steely. 

“If you think I’m going to tell her about the prophecy and reveal that I’m the one that set the Dark Lord on her family, you’re mad. She doesn’t need to know.” 

The twinkle returned to Albus’s eyes. “I think you’ll find that telling her is not an impossibility, but an eventuality. She will find out one day—” 

“Don’t tell her—” 

“--and it would be better for her to hear it from you rather than come to her own conclusions.” 

“I don’t know how she would know if you don’t tell her.” Severus hated the desperation in his voice—when had the girl’s good opinion of him come to matter so much? He hated the thought of Lily’s daughter looking at him with disgust, disappointment, hatred. He even found himself thinking he couldn’t bear to see tearful hazel eyes, where he had once delighted in the prospect of hurting anyone with the slightest resemblance to James Potter. 

“You’re forgetting we’re not the only ones who were present that night. Sybill, Lucius, Nott, and Aberforth could all reveal your presence that night.” 

He swallowed. Albus, of course, was right. That he had delivered the prophecy to the Dark Lord was no secret within the Death Eaters—the several of the Inner Circle knew. Bellatrix, Rabastan, Rodolphus, Lucius, Dolohov, Nott—they all knew. Thankfully all but Lucius and Nott were currently imprisoned in Azkaban, and neither of them had any reason to interact with the girl—Nott’s son was a loner, and Draco was jealous of the girl’s fame. There would be no direct interaction with the girl, nor any indirect interaction through their children. 

Severus scowled. “I suppose your mind is already made up. Everything has to happen exactly the way you want it to.” 

Albus peered at him over his glasses. “Severus, my boy, I am only human. I make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being--forgive me--rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger. I simply believe all this to be for the best.” 

“I suppose at least you care about the girl,” he said. “But what of the Muggle boy?” 

“Muggles and Squibs can be part of the magical world if they so choose. I am sure young Dudley can be taught magic is not something to be feared and hated.” 

“There is too much bad blood between the girl and him. He will blame her for his parents’ arrest. He will bully her, as he always has done.” 

“I will not allow it Severus. Things are about to change for both children—for the better.” 

*HP* 

Hazel awoke to the sound of a sharp rap on her door. She rubbed her bleary eyes—hopefully Aunt Petunia wasn’t in a bad mood today. She sat up with a start—Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon—they were in _jail_. They would never hurt her again, never say a cruel word to her. With any luck, they would plead guilty and there wouldn’t even be a trial. She was going to live with Dumbledore—it was all so surreal. Sure, she had to deal with Dudley, but she could handle him now that she had adults on her side, besides batty old Mrs. Figg. 

Hazel looked around the room and saw her trunk had been moved in during the night. She decided to wear the beautiful green robes that Daphne had purchased her for Christmas. The only other option was Dudley’s hand-me-downs or her school robes, and she wasn’t about to wear either during the summer, in front of her professors. She pulled the robes on and buttoned the fastenings before exiting the room. 

When she arrived in the kitchen, there were several parcels. It was her birthday—in the excitement of the previous day, she had forgotten. She looked around the table—to her surprise, Dudley sat poking at his food, looking subdued. Professor Snape was eyeing the boy with distaste, while Dumbledore read forked eggs into his mouth, looking merry. 

Hazel sat down at the only empty seat. “Good morning, Dudley,” she said gently. She had no way of knowing how Dudley would react—after all, she was the reason they had been arrested and he taken away. She wasn’t sorry for that—the abusive arseholes deserved what they got—but she felt sorry for Dudley. He was just a child, like her. He was a bully, but no one had ever taught him any different. In fact, his parents had even encouraged his bullying ways. He didn’t know any better. Maybe things would be different under Dumbledore’s watch. 

“Good morning, freak,” he said with a nasty sneer. 

Hazel sat down at the table, ignoring him. She was a master at ignoring insults, growing up as she did. She had long ago stopped taking them personally. 

“Now, Dudley,” Dumbledore said. “That is no way to greet your cousin.” 

“I’m just calling her what she is!” 

Hazel glanced at Professor Snape—if looks could vaporize someone, Dudley would be nothing but a pile of dust. 

“It’s alright, professors,” she said. “I’m used to it. It’s just Dudley being Dudley.” 

“While that may be true, Miss Potter, it is unacceptable behavior. He can finish his breakfast in his bedroom.” 

“I’m not a little kid,” Dudley whined. 

“Then stop behaving like one!” Professor Snape snapped. “Now get out of my sight.” 

Dudley scowled and grabbed his plate, before shuffling down the hall. 

Hazel looked around with wide eyes. Dudley’s exit had caused the room to devolve into an awkward silence. She made up a plate of food but did not eat—she had something else on her mind. 

“May I open my presents?” She didn’t want to presume she was allowed to—she didn’t know if the professors would insist on her eating breakfast first. She also didn’t want to seem like an over-eager child. 

Dumbledore chuckled. “If you wish,” he said. 

Hazel leapt from the chair she had only just sat down in, heading towards the counter where her gifts were stacked. She picked up the smallest package, which had an envelop spell-o-taped to it. She tore the letter off and opened it—Daphne’s elegant handwriting spilled across the page. 

_Hazel,_

_I hope you get this letter—it has your present. It would be a dull birthday indeed without presents from your friends. I don’t know why you haven’t responded to any of my letters, or if you’re even getting them, but I couldn’t just ignore your birthday! Anyways, please write me if you receive this. Hermione and I are worried about you. We’ve told Dumbledore we think there’s something wrong, so expect a visit from someone._

_Daphne_

She vowed to write to her friends—Hedwig was hooting happily on a perch by the stove. There were no insane house elves to steal her letters and no cruel Dursleys to lock Hedwig up. And she owed it all to Daphne and Hermione, who had been clever enough to realize something was wrong. She really loved her friends. 

She opened the package—it was a necklace in the shape of a snake, lined with sparkling emeralds. Hazel recognized it—it matched the bracelet she had purchased in June for Daphne’s birthday. It was a pity Hermione wasn’t a Slytherin, because then she could wear the ring. Hazel appreciated not only the beauty of the jewelry, but the thought behind it. Daphne, despite her smart mouth, had a great capacity for caring and thoughtfulness. She immediately secured it around her neck. 

The content of the next package was as obvious as the giver. It was thick and rectangular—a book from Hermione. She tore the package open—Hermione had bought her _The Magicks of Defense Against the Darke_. Hazel eagerly thumbed through the book, which had moving diagrams of wand movements, which made learning the spells significantly easier. Hazel had suffered through deciphering too many library books without such diagrams with Hermione. Readings “you must move your wand in a diagonal motion with a slight flourish at the end” was more open to interpretation than Hazel could ever have imagined when she started Hogwarts. 

What caught her eye now was two small gifts—one was a small parcel stamped with an elegant M. It could only be from Malfoy, but why he would send her a birthday present, she did not know. It could be a trap of some sort, a cursed object—but surely even Malfoy was not so stupid as to send something illegal by owl. Curiosity winning out over wariness, she pulled the package open. 

Inside was a letter in a boy’s spiky script. 

_Potter,_

_My mother says I would be remiss not to apologize to you for bullying you and your friends last year. She says it is ungentlemanly to bully girls. Anyways, consider this expensive present my apology and offer of peace._

_Draco_

Hazel snorted and set the gift aside without opening it. Professor Snape peered at the little box—Hazel suspected he was curious but would not show it. She moved onto her next and final present, a box wrapped in deep green paper trimmed in silver. She pulled the package open to find a box of chocolates from Adrian, along with a friendly note of well-wishes from him and the rest of the team. She smiled and popped a cherry-bomb chocolate into her mouth, delighting in the explosion of flavor. 

“No chocolates before breakfast unless you share with the rest of us!” Dumbledore said with a wink. Hazel’s grin widened and she offered the headmaster, now her guardian, his pick of chocolates. He took a cockroach cluster and chewed it happily. One look at Professor Snape showed he promised evisceration for any offer of chocolate. Hazel stowed the box with the rest of her presents and sat down to eat breakfast. 

This was the best birthday she had ever had. Life was certainly looking good at the moment. A new guardian who cared about her, friends she could talk to, even the presence of the surly Professor Snape—all of it made her smile.


	13. Chapter 13

Life at Flamel Cottage was never dull, between Professor Snape skulking in corners, ready to catch Dudley committing any small misdeed and Dumbledore’s insistence that she explore her interests. This meant she got to see her willful cousin punished by a strict taskmaster, something she had never experienced before, and that she got to spend the warm summer days flying above the beaches near to the cottage and reading books Dumbledore (Albus, she had to remind herself) personally recommended. He seemed to be of the mind that her interests, intellectual and otherwise, had been neglected for far too long and had taken to spoiling her with books and kind words. He would still reign her in when she went too far (she recalled a notorious incident in which Professor Snape caught her performing yet another Wronski Feint over the ocean), but for the most part was an easy-going, genial guardian, more grandfather than father. 

Dudley, for his part, was not adjusting well. Albus had purchased him books about the magical world, specially written for Squibs trying to find a place in the fascinating magical world they were unable to fully participate in. The books sat untouched—Dudley much preferred sulking in his room or throwing rocks into the ocean. Albus gave Dudley his fair share of attention, wanting to hear about his days and his interests and what the modern Muggle world was like. Flamel Cottage had since gained a telly and a Nintendo in an effort to make Dudley feel more at home. Albus had even played Mario with Dudley—Hazel couldn’t deny that the headmaster had a sense of whimsy. 

Even for Hazel, living in a magical house was an adjustment. She was used to the magic of students in a school, not the everyday sort of magic one found in a magical home. Mirrors talked, teapots sang, books whispered, and doorknobs warned against entry into locked rooms. She was used to the grandeur of Hogwarts, not the whimsical touches of a home owned by Albus Dumbledore. But she found she loved it here, and not just because of the magic. 

Albus cared about her. For the first time in her life, there was an adult she truly, fully had in her corner, one whose care she did not have to worry about losing. Even with Professor Snape last year, she had always felt as though she was on thin ice, that one wrong move could damage any hidden fondness he might have for her. It was different with Albus—he seemed to care for her unconditionally. He would be disappointed when she did wrong, but he would never speak cruelly in haste, as Professor Snape had last year. While he was not the imagined guardian she had pictured as a child, she found herself liking him better than any figure she could have created. 

Today, Hazel was especially excited—she had planned to meet Hermione and Daphne in Diagon Alley. Albus was taking her and Dudley to do some shopping—as it happened, one set of nice robes was not enough to keep her from having to wear Dudley’s hand-me-downs, something the big boy found endless amusement in. Albus also hoped that interacting with magical children his own age would help Dudley settle down and see that magic was not something to be despised. 

Hazel sat down at the table, again wearing her fine green robes. She wasn’t about to go into the magical world dressed in Dudley’s rags if she could help it. She looked at the blond boy and said, “Good morning, Dudley.” 

“Good morning,” Dudley said, glancing at Professor Snape, who was scowling at him. He had long since abandoned the epithet of freak, knowing that the professors simply wouldn’t stand for it. He would be sent to his room with only books he wasn’t interested in for company. Dudley may not be the brightest, but even he could recognize the futility in persisting in insulting her in the presence of the professors. 

After they finished their breakfast, Dumbledore instructed them to go to the fireplace. Hazel did as he asked without complaint, but Dudley whined, “I don’t want to go to any place where freaks go.” 

“Dudley,” Albus said, his voice calm and firm. “You will go through the fireplace with your cousin. Wait for me just outside the fireplace.” 

“Why can’t I go through by myself?” 

Hazel wondered that too. 

“You must hold onto Hazel’s hand tightly, lest you be lost in between grates. Only a magical person can use the floo.” 

Hazel wondered why Mrs. Figg had her house connected to the floo, then, if she couldn’t use it. She opened her mouth to ask the question, but one look from Albus told her that now was not the moment for questions. She was quickly learning that Albus was not the most forthcoming of guardians—he only told her what he wanted her to know and would never reveal anything beyond that, no matter how much she pressed. 

“Come on, Dud,” Hazel said, reaching her hand out to him, walking into the fireplace, handful of floo powder in hand. 

Just as she dropped the powder and began to call out “The Leaky Cauldron!”, Dudley elbowed her hard in the ribs. She sputtered and coughed, dropping the powder, but still holding onto Dudley’s hand tightly. She didn’t like him much, but she didn’t know how dangerous being lost in the floo could be—she wasn’t about to take responsibility for losing Dudley somewhere in the magical world. 

It felt as if she were being sucked down a giant drain. Both Hazel and the world around her spun. She tried to keep her eyes open, but the whirling green flames were too bright—they nearly sent her into a panic, as she remembered the flash of another green light, a high, cold laugh— 

And then it was over, and she was falling to the ground, the cold stone floor bruising her knees. 

“Ow,” Dudley said. 

Hazel pushed herself up, furious. “What in Merlin’s name were you thinking? I don’t have any idea where we are!” 

“What do you mean you don’t know where we are? You’re magic, this stupid thing works for you!” 

“That’s right—and it would have, if you hadn’t been so bloody stupid and hit me! We’ll just have to wait on Albus or Professor Snape to find us.” 

Hazel huffed and looked around. They appeared to be in a shop, which was cluttered with an assortment of artifacts. A withered hand on a cushion. A pack of yellowed cards. A glass eye whose pupil followed her as she paced across the room. Human bones. Instruments that looked as if they could only be used for tortures she could not imagine. She peered out the dusty window to see a dark, narrow street that was definitely not part of Diagon Alley. 

She had the impression that being found here would be a distinctly bad thing, despite the innocence of their arrival. 

Then Hazel saw someone she most certainly did not want to see while she was covered in soot and lost with her Muggle cousin: Draco Malfoy. 

She grabbed Dudley’s hand and pulled him into a large black cabinet. She pulled the door closed behind them, leaving only a small crack through which they could watch Mafloy. 

“They could help us find our way back,” Dudley whispered. 

“They won’t.” 

And then the door open and a bell clanged. 

Just behind Draco was a man who could only be his father. They had the same face, pointed and pale, and the same cold, grey eyes. Mr. Malfoy strode around the shop, glancing at the various items on display. An air of disdain hung around him as he moved around lazily. He rang a bell on the counter and said, “Touch nothing, Draco.” 

“You said you were going to buy me a present.” 

“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” he said, drumming his fingers on the counter. Whoever the shopkeeper was, he certainly was not very attentive—she and Dudley had made quite the noise coming in and Mr. Malfoy had rang the bell for service. 

“What’s the good of that if I’m not on the House team?” Malfoy whined. “I want to be Seeker, but that’s Hazel Potter’s position. She always gets all the glory. She’s not even that good, she’s just on the team because she’s famous. Everyone thinks she’s so smart and wonderful and—” 

“You have told me this at least a dozen times already. It is not prudent to appear less than fond of the Girl Who Lived, nor is it becoming of a gentleman to bully a girl, as your mother as instructed you.” 

Malfoy looked as if he was about to complain some more, to Hazel’s delight, but just then a stooping man appeared behind the counter. 

“Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,” he said, voice as oily as his hair. 

“I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling. The Ministry, of course, has been conducting raids and I have some items I would rather not be found with.” 

“The Ministry would not presume to trouble you, sir, surely?” 

“I have not been visited yet. Though money and power do not command the control they once did, the name of Malfoy still means something. Yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. Now, if you could look at these poisons for me…” 

Hazel and Dudley listened to the two men haggle, ear pressed to the door. Draco interrupted once, wanting something called a Hand of Glory. Hazel also learned that Hermione had beat Draco in every exam and Draco came by his prejudices honestly—his father believed in the importance of wizarding blood. More importantly, she discovered that the Malfoys had more items hidden in their manor that were likely illegal. Maybe Dumbledore would be able to do something about that—she would love to see those nasty blood purists get their due. 

After Mr. Borgin disappeared into his back room, Hazel pushed the door open. Dudley followed her out and reached for a beautiful opal necklace. Hazel slapped his hand away. 

“Can’t you read?” she hissed. “It’s killed Nineteen Muggles, you idiot!” 

“Muggles?” 

“If you’d listen to Albus, you’d know that that’s what you are! Now follow me!” 

They walked out the door as quietly as they could, into the dingy alleyway full of shops that seemed devoted to the Dark Arts. She twisted her neck to get a better look at the shop they had just exited—Borgin and Burkes. It seemed to be the largest. There was a display of shrunken heads in the shop across the street and gigantic spiders in cages a few shops down. Two wizards in worn robes looked at her and Dudley and muttered. Hazel tightened her grip on Dudley’s hand and set off, hoping to find a way out of this place. 

An old wooden sign hanging over the alleyway marked this place as Knockturn Alley. Hazel had never heard of it. 

“Lost, are you, my dears?” asked an aged old witch holding a tray of what looked like human fingernails. She leered at them with mossy teeth, causing Dudley to shrink back behind Hazel. 

“We’re fine, thanks. We’re just—ALBUS!” 

At just that moment, Hazel spotted their guardian, looking terribly out of place in this dingy alley in his resplendent robes of magenta. All the residents of the alley stopped to stare at him, backing away. Hazel had the distinct impression that this was a place no one wanted to be seen in, least of all by Albus Dumbledore. Dudley’s relief at seeing the familiar figure was palpable, as was her own. Behind him was Professor Snape, looking furious as ever. 

Professor Snape stormed forward, grabbing Dudley by the wrist, just as he had Hazel after the Remembrall incident. “What were you thinking, idiot boy? Do you have any idea what could have happened to you in this place?” 

Dudley whimpered. 

“I’m taking him back to the cottage, Albus,” he said. 

“You will do no such thing, Severus. As I have said, the boy has been cooped up far too long and needs companions of his own age. I will deal with his punishment when we return home.” 

Professor Snape scowled and dropped Dudley’s wrist, much to the boy’s relief. He glanced at Albus and then said, “If you can handle it from here, Albus, I have more important business to attend to than babysitting.” 

“I do believe we shall be fine, Severus,” Albus said, eyes twinkling. He turned around and set off in the direction from which he came. Dudley and Hazel scrambled to keep up with him—for a man of more than one hundred, Albus certainly moved fast. 

*HP* 

Why Lucius wanted to meet here of all places, Severus did not know. Perhaps he was simply blasé about being seen with former Azkaban inmates, as so many of his associates had been prisoners in the wretched place. It was a wonder to him how so many viewed Lucius as an upstanding member of society. He supposed money talked, and most people didn’t want to look to closely as long as the money went to what they thought were good causes. 

Severus walked into the café, checking his battered pocket watch. He was just on time. It wouldn’t do to be late—as a busy man, Lucius expected punctuality. He looked around the dark room and spotted two heads of silver-blond hair. Draco was looking most displeased to be attending this meeting, while his father waited with that quiet manner of aristocratic impatience that he had long ago perfected. 

“Ah, Severus,” Lucius said, extending his hand in greeting to his old friend. Severus took his hand and shook it, though he loathed touching other people. He watched as Lucius cast a quick _muffliato_. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Lucius?” Severus asked as he sat down. He took a sip of the tea waiting for him, his favorite brew. 

A wicked smile crossed Lucius’s face. “I have news.” 

Severus only just refrained from rolling his eyes. Lucius had _news_. “What will it be this time? Some scandalous bit of gossip? One of your old paramour’s pregnancy, _again_? Or perhaps something less mundane, a juicy tidbit on an old murder I do not care to know the details of. Some of us have more important things to do than listen to the inane prattling of society wives.” 

“My, my, Severus. Jealous, are we?” 

Draco sniggered. 

Severus felt his face burn, but he quickly clamped down on the emotion with Occlumency. Lucius knew his relative poverty was a sore point, and it was one he had never been able to escape, not when Lucius remembered his days as a ragamuffin first year. He detested this charade of friendship, but it was a necessary game. One day the Dark Lord would return, and he would them to be the fast friends they had been before. 

“What do you want, Lucius?” 

“I have two pieces of news that will interest you. The first, I have news of the Dark Lord’s movements. He is in Albania. I was thinking of dispatching one of the old crowd to search for him.” 

Severus raised a brow, pretending to be intrigued. Whatever Lucius was up to, it was a smokescreen for something else. The Dark Lord’s presence in Albania was common knowledge amongst both the Death Eaters and the Order. No one had bothered to search for him, as those who had eluded Azkaban were not eager to have their loyalties questioned once more—going to the Dark Lord’s rumored hiding place as a suspected Death Eater was guaranteed to call one’s already blemished character into question. 

“And just who were you planning on sending? Nott, who couldn’t find his own arse with a map? Crabbe or Goyle, who can barely string two words together? Or MacNair, the respectable Ministry man?” 

“You, my friend. You.” 

“Me?” 

“Yes. As Dumbledore’s lapdog, you are above suspicion, despite your…dubious past.” 

“Dumbledore would never give me permission to leave my post, as you well know. He likes to keep an eye on me. And the Dark Lord will be most displeased if he learns his spy left his post to go on your fool’s errand!” 

“Think, Severus! What if we are the ones to return him to his former glory? We would be honored above all others!” 

“No, Lucius. I refuse your request. I will be staying precisely where the Dark Lord instructed me to be.” 

“Are you a coward, Severus?” Draco sneered. 

“I believe the correct form of address is ‘Professor Snape,’ Mr. Malfoy. Failing that, you may call me sir.” 

“Don’t you want to see the Dark Lord returned to his former glory?” 

Severus’s eyes narrowed. Here was a boy who had been in nappies when the Dark Lord was last in power, telling him what he ought to think about that monster’s return. He didn’t know what it was like. He had only his father’s grand tales—he knew nothing of the Dark Lord’s brutality, even towards his own followers. Severus had more scars than he could count from the attentions he had received from the Dark Lord and his other Death Eaters when he failed to deliver on a task he had been assigned, usually the creation of a new dark potion. He was the dirty half-blood tolerated for his talent. But that was not to say that purebloods were always spared—even Lucius had faced the Dark Lord’s displeasure from time to time. 

But he could tell none of this to the boy in front of him. He could appear nothing less than gleeful at the prospect of the Dark Lord’s return. 

“This is not a conversation to be had in such a public place,” he said. “Nor with children.” 

Lucius smirked. “We both know that spell of yours will keep curious ears away. Now, Severus, tell me why you fear the Dark Lord’s return?” 

“I do not fear it, Lucius, unless I abandon my post, which I patently refuse to do. Go find someone else to do your dirty work—I for one will be exactly where the Dark Lord commanded me to be.” 

“So be it. You may find you regret your choice in the coming months.” 

Severus furrowed his brow. What did that mean? Was Lucius planning something at Hogwarts, something he wanted him out of the way for? There was no way of knowing, but he would certainly be keeping a closer eye on Draco in the coming turn. Perhaps Albus would have an idea. 

Lucius smirked. “I also come bearing news of your family.” 

“I have no family,” Severus spat. 

“On the contrary, Severus. Your father—” 

“Is dead to me. As is my mother. I care nothing for your news, Lucius. Now allow me to take my leave.” 

Severus pushed the chair back and stood up, leaving his tea half drunk. He didn’t want to hear news of his father. If the man was dead, the world was better off. And if the man was looking for him, he knew where to find him, and Severus would be ready to face him. 

*HP* 

“I can’t believe Mr. Weasley punched Mr. Malfoy!” Hazel said, following Daphne and Hermione out the door. 

“In front of Professor Dumbledore, no less!” Hermione said. “Oh, what Professor Lockhart must have thought!” 

“He’s a nutter, Hermione. Didn’t you see how uncomfortable he made Hazel? He didn’t even care what she wanted, he just wants _publicity_. And it’s not like any of us associate with the Weasleys or the Malfoys.” 

They passed the crowd of Weasleys on the way out. They, of course, knew most of the Weasley brood from school, seeing Percy, Fred, George, and Ron every day at Hogwarts, and hearing about the Head Boy Bill and Quidditch star Charlie from older students. They had never met Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, nor the girl with them, presumably their youngest and only daughter. 

Hazel smiled shyly and said, “Hello, Ron.” 

Both Ron and the girl turned as red as their hair. There was a moment of awkward silence before one of the twins broke it. “We never understood why our git of a brother decided not to be friends with you.” 

“Real idiot,” the other twin agreed. 

“Always has been.” 

“Could have had you pretend to be another Weasley with hair like yours.” 

The girl giggled. Hazel grinned, while Dudley stood behind them looking puzzled. 

“I’m Hazel Potter,” she said, offering a hand to the girl. She blushed again but shook hands, withdrawing quickly. 

“Ginny Weasley,” she mumbled. 

Hazel considered the red-headed girl, who was quite flustered. Her cheeks were tinged pink under the dusting of freckles, and she refused to meet her eyes. Hazel smiled at her, and the girl looked away, her blush deepening. Hazel supposed Ginny was just shy. 

“It was a pleasure to meet you, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, taking her husband’s hand. “But we really must be off.” 

Hazel nodded and bid her farewell, watching as the brood of Weasleys made their way down the narrow, crowded street of Diagon Alley. 

“I love those twins,” Daphne said. “Another Weasley—Ron could have passed you off as his sister! No sense of fun, especially for a Gryffindor.” 

Hermione snorted. “You don’t have to live with Fred and George. You would feel differently about them the first time they hexed one of your books to sing bawdy songs!” 

“No,” Daphne laughed. “I don’t think I would.” 

“What the bloody hell are you on about?” Dudley said. “Gryffindunk? Weasels?” 

“Gryffindor and the Weasleys, Dudley. Honestly, were you even listening?” Hermione scolded. “Gryffindor is one of the four houses I’m sure Professor Dumbledore has told you about, and the Weasleys are the red-headed family we just met.” 

“Yeah,” Hazel said. “Quit being such a moron and listen.” 

Moments later, Albus appeared behind them, Gilderoy Lockhart babbling away beside him. Albus had adopted an air of polite interest that Hazel suspected could only be an act. No one was that interested in Lockhart’s most recent award—Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile. But unfortunately Lockhart didn’t seem to be taking the hint. Daphne rolled her eyes, but Hermione looked at the new professor with wide, enraptured eyes. Hazel elbowed her friend in the ribs, causing Hermione to look away from Lockhart and scowl. 

“What?” 

“Just making sure you weren’t drooling,” Hazel said, grinning. 

Hermione turned red. 

“Thank you for that charming recounting, Gilderoy,” Albus said. He put a hand on Dudley’s shoulder. “However, I promised the children a trip to Florean’s and we really must be going.” 

“Perhaps I could come with you?” he said. “Gilderoy Lockhart and Hazel Potter, what a duo we make!” 

It was nearly nine o’clock before they finally escaped Lockhart, who insisted on following them wherever they went. She had never met someone so empty-headed. She supposed it went with the stereotypes of the very handsome and very vain. What Hermione saw in the man, she certainly didn’t know. If the man had done half of what he claimed to, she was a kneazle. 

When they arrived at Flamel Cottage, finally Lockhart free, Hazel knocked on the door to Professor Snape’s room. “Enter,” he called. Hazel poked her head through the door. Professor Snape was sitting at a tiny desk, leaning over a piece of parchment. He looked up from his work, a faint look of shock playing across his features. 

“Miss Potter, I believe it is time for you to go to bed.” 

“I just have a quick question,” she said. “Why did Albus hire Lockhart? He doesn’t seem to know very much about Defense.” 

Professor Snape snorted. “Far be it from me to criticize my colleagues to a student, but as you have surely deduced, the working of Albus’s mind is known only to him.” 

“So you don’t know.” 

“I cannot fathom why Albus hired that man.” Hazel heard the implied “over me.” It was, of course, well known that Professor Snape wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. 

“For what it’s worth, professor, I think you would make a great Defense professor.” 

His lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “Good night, Miss Potter.”


	14. Chapter 14

Severus left the cottage in the dead of night. Lucius had invited him to a meeting yet again, this time assuring him that Draco would not be present. Much as Lucius liked to play the concerned father, there was little he did not discuss in the presence of Draco. He believed that he was preparing Draco to take on his role as head of the family, but Severus still firmly believed that there were some things that ought not be discussed in the presence of children. 

He walked into the bar, watching Lucius at the table, a beautiful young woman sitting on his lap. He was not alone either—Aloysius Nott, Crabbe and Goyle Sr., and Macnair all sat at the table. Nott drank his wine with an air of aloofness, Crabbe and Goyle gaped, and Macnair watched Lucius and the young woman, eyeing them both with jealousy and greed. 

“Severus, my friend,” Lucius said, beckoning him to the table. “Did you bring the potion?” 

Severus fingered the vial in his pocket. The Aspectus Potion, a hallucinogenic of his own design. It happened to be one of Lucius’s favorites. The ingredients were rare and expensive and the potion itself was tricky to make. He had first made it in the service of the Dark Lord, to his shame. When taken willingly, the visions it produced seemed to be dreams made incarnate. When taken forcibly, it turned the world into a hellish nightmare. 

“Staying out late on a school night?” Nott sneered. 

Severus felt his face flush but fought back his embarrassment with Occlumency. One of the Dark Lord’s old taunts. The Dark Lord typically dismissed him early on the nights when Muggles were brought to gatherings. Everyone knew he didn’t have the stomach for torturing Muggles—his formidable spellwork departed him. Once he became a spy, the Dark Lord liked to say he couldn’t have his spy staying out too late on a school night, as if he were an errant child masquerading as a man. 

“My, my, Severus. Tomorrow _is_ the start of term,” Lucius said. 

“I do not anticipate this taking long,” Severus said. “Tell me why you have requested my presence.” 

Lucius grinned. “Because you can bring that fine potion with you,” Lucius said. “And because we find you amusing.” 

“Amusing?” 

“Yes, of course. The poor Cokeworth half-blood playing at being a well-bred pureblood.” 

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Severus said. “I simply…grew up.” 

“And lost an accent,” Lucius laughed. “Remember, Gregory, how he used to talk? The first thing I told him was not to eat like a savage. And what did he say? ‘Awont gunta worra?’ or some equally indecipherable grunting. Just like a savage.” 

Crabbe and Goyle laughed stupidly. 

“What do you want from me?” 

“Give me the potion,” Lucius said. 

Severus did as he asked. He handed to Lucius, who weighed it in his hand. He smiled and kissed the young woman in his lap. “You wanted a show, my dear, and we shall give you a show.” 

Severus’s eyes widened. He turned away and took a step towards the door—he knew better than to draw his wand on those the Dark Lord considered his betters—but it was too late. Lucius had drawn his own wand and cast a stunner at him, which struck him in the back. He fell to the floor with a dull thud. 

Lucius turned him on his back and poured the potion into his mouth, forcing his mouth shut and holding it there until he swallowed. 

The potion burned as it went down his throat. 

_He was a boy again, dirty-haired and too-thin. Back in Spinner’s End, not the happy place of Flamel Cottage. Flamel Cottage was nothing but a distant memory, a dream—Spinner’s End was all that was real._

_He stepped out of his room and walked down the stairs, despite his better judgment, compelled by some unknown force. He could hear his mother’s screams, the sound of flesh striking flesh. His father was beating his mother again. He could scarcely remember a day when Tobias had not laid hands on one of them._

_He pushed the door to the kitchen open. The floor was littered with empty and broken beer bottles. His mother lay amongst them, cut and bleeding. She looked at him through swollen, blackened eyes. “Go to your room, Severus,” she said through her tears._

_In a flash, he was on the ground. His father had thrown a bottle at him, which struck him in the face. He cried out in pain. “Mummy,” he cried._

_And then his mother got up off the floor, turned away, and limped out of the room, leaving him to his father’s mercy._

_But it wasn’t his father._

_It was Hazel, a cruel sneer on her face. He had never seen such an expression on her face in his life. Hazel was simply too kind, too good-natured to look at anyone in such a way. Lily stood behind her, the same expression on her face._

_“You think to protect me?” Hazel said. “You’re pathetic, crying for your mummy.”_

_“You killed me Severus,” Lily said. “I’m dead and it’s all your fault.”_

_“No,” he said, his voice quavering._

_“Yes,” she said. “It’s your fault.”_

_“My fault,” he moaned._

_“You violated my mind. You used an Unforgiveable on me,” Hazel said. “You belong in Azkaban.”_

_And then, in a flash of green light, the two women he cared for above else crumpled to the ground, dead._

_He blinked, and then a dementor was upon him, removing its hood with one crooked hand, revealing the horror beneath…_

_And then nothing, nothing but the laughter of Hazel and Lily, who had risen, dead and rotting, which turned into the laughter of men._

Severus blinked back the tears, though he knew it was futile. They were already streaming down his face. 

“Did you hear him crying for his mother?” Macnair said, laughing a deep belly laugh. 

Yes, stupid bint she was, marrying that Muggle.” 

Severus couldn’t disagree. If only his mother had married someone else. He had loved her even through her cold neglect, loved her even if she never loved him. If his mother had married someone worthy of her, he might never have been born, and she might have been happy. But that’s what he did best—ruin others’ chances at happiness. 

Severus picked himself up off the floor with what little dignity he had left. He drew his wand and apparated to Flamel Cottage. He knew exactly what he was going to do. 

*HP* 

“Severus.” 

He looked up with red-rimmed eyes, taking another swig of firewhiskey. He hated himself, but that was nothing new. He was no stranger to drinking either. It was just one more of his inheritances from his wretched father. 

That wretched potion was still wearing off—it wouldn’t be completely out of his system for several days. He could still see the ghoulish faces of the women he cared for, still hear the mocking laughter. 

Albus sat beside him on the bed, which creaked lightly under the additional weight. Severus looked away. He wished Albus didn’t insist on these nightly chats. He told the old man as much, but Albus only replied that these nightly meetings would cease when his drinking did. Severus laughed at that. 

“I can’t stand to look her,” he said. 

Albus looked at him, blue eyes shining. He knew he was about to take Severus’s nightly confession and would not interrupt. 

“The girl. I killed her mother,” he said. “I killed her father. It’s my fault they’re dead. But she admires me—I don’t know how or why, but she does. Looks up to me. I want her to know so she’ll hate me like she’s supposed to, but I don’t want her to hate me, not really. I thought I would, but I don’t.” 

“She is not her father,” Albus agreed. “Nor her mother. But I do not think things are so dire, Severus. She will not know the prophecy for many more years, nor will I tell her your role in it all. I do hope you will tell her yourself, but by that time comes, she will be older and wiser. Even as it is, I do not believe Hazel has it in her heart to truly hate anyone.” 

Severus took another drink from the bottle. “It feels like I’m waiting for my own execution,” he said. “I know the day the Dark Lord returns will come and I will have to retake my place at his side. I know the girl will know what I have done and must do. It fills me with dread.” 

“You do not have to, Severus. I will not ask that of you.” 

“But I must. Who else can protect the girl from his side?” 

“By the time Tom returns, the girl may not need protecting,” Albus said. “She is already growing into a great witch with an even greater heart.” 

Severus laughed a bitter laugh. “A great heart—it will get her killed. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about those Gryffindor boys. She protected the latest Weasley brat all because they shared some sweets on the train, even after he left her to die!” 

“Nothing comes of nothing, my boy,” he said. “The road to greatness of heart is treacherous. I believe one day she shall be very glad of trying to salvage her friendship with young Ronald—" 

“—he left her to die—” 

“The misguided actions of a boy desperate to fit in,” Albus said sharply. “I do believe you know much about such things, Severus.” 

Severus scowled. How dare Albus compare him to that boy. Weasley was nothing like him—he had a family who loved and cherished and protected him. He had lived a happy life free of beatings and fear of a tyrant. He was a Gryffindor, not a hated, despised, greasy Slytherin called _Snivellus_. But even _Snivellus_ at his darkest had known leaving an eleven-year-old girl to die was wrong. There was no excuse. 

But how many deaths had he inadvertently caused? He didn’t know what his potions were used for, not always. Some of the darker ones could certainly kill or drive someone to madness. He had created sectumsempra and shared it with Death Eaters, who used it to maim and kill. And he had shared the prophecy with the Dark Lord, killing the only friend he had ever had. 

All because _Snivellus_ had wanted to fit in. 

He felt tears start to form in his eyes and snarled. 

“What is the purpose of this, Albus? Have I not been punished enough? What do you want from me? For me to lie down at your feet and declare my sins, tell you I’m sorry, and weep? Would that help your God complex? Tell me!” 

Albus looked at him with equanimity. “I want you to forgive yourself, Severus. That is all I want.” 

“Well you can’t have it,” he snapped, knowing he was being terribly childish. 

“I know how self-hatred can poison the soul,” Albus said, his voice low. “I—” 

“No, you don’t,” Severus said. “You’ve always been the golden child of the wizarding world, the genius, the beloved Albus Dumbledore, greater than us mere mortals! Don’t tell me about self-hatred. You don’t know anything about it.” 

Albus looked at him. Silence reigned. Severus looked away—he ought not have said that. Albus Dumbledore never spoke empty words. He should have listened, but now it was too late. 

It always was, for him. 

*HP* 

Hazel wished it never had to end. The days spent at Flamel Cottage were the best of her life. Not even Dudley’s presence could mar her happiness. In fact, after their little adventure down Knockturn Alley, he was downright tolerable compared to his old self. They were not friends, per se, but Dudley was at least curious about her and her life now. He would ask her about her parents and why she was famous, and she would show him the pictures Hagrid had gifted her. He had even read the chapter about her in the _Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_. Hazel in turn would ask about his Nintendo, and they would play Mario. They had come to a tentative truce of sorts. 

She hoped it wouldn’t all disappear now that they were going to Hogwarts. 

The morning of September the first, Hazel dressed in a simple Muggle dress. She missed her robes, but they would draw attention in Kings Cross. She refused to be one of those witches who did not know how to blend in with Muggles. 

All her things had been packed away over the course of the last week, at Albus’s behest. Dudley had thrown a tantrum when he learned that books were all he could take with him to Hogwarts—there was simply too much magic at Hogwarts for the Nintendo to work—but had calmed down quickly enough. For someone who had never been told no in his life, Hazel thought he was doing remarkably well. 

A bleary-eyed Dudley sat at the table when she arrived for breakfast. Professor Snape was sipping on some tea. Albus flicked his wand and filled her plate with sausage and eggs. She had put on some much-needed weight under Albus’s attention—she was still small and willowy, but no longer so thin that she looked as if a good breeze would knock her over. She remembered their trip to Madam Malkin’s, when the elderly witch had told her she needed to invest in bras now that she was becoming a young woman. She had been very glad that Albus was with Dudley finding new robes when the witch had told her that. 

“Hello, Hazel,” Dudley said, glancing at Professor Snape. The two still didn’t get along, even after Dudley’s attitude improvement. Professor Snape was constantly punishing Dudley for something. Hazel found this a bit unfair, but didn’t say anything, as she suspected that was just how Professor Snape was. After all, he did the same to Gryffindors at school. 

“Are you looking forward to Hogwarts, Dudley?” 

“No,” he snapped, forking some sausage into his mouth. “I wish I could go back to Smeltings with Piers.” 

Hazel scowled, remembering the rat-faced boy. He had been Dudley’s second in command and was a complete pig. She had disliked him even more than she disliked Dudley before he changed. Dudley was an equal opportunity bully, going after anyone and everyone. Piers only picked on the small and weak, and even then, only when he had someone else backing him up. Piers was a coward—she had to admit, Dudley, in his own way, was brave. 

“You’re better than him, Dud,” she said. “You’ll make new friends at Hogwarts, you’ll see.” 

“Piers is my friend!” 

“Piers is a rat-faced bully!” 

“Don’t raise your voices,” Professor Snape said coldly. 

Hazel swallowed and nodded. She had mostly avoided the caustic man’s ire this summer and planned on continuing that way. “All I’m saying is you can do better for friends. Just wait, Dudley. Hogwarts is the best place anywhere.” 

“Maybe for you,” he said, looking away, scowling. 

Albus cleared his throat, stopping the conversation. Hazel wondered what Dudley meant—maybe for you? The only thing she had that Dudley didn’t was magic, and he thought magic was freakish and horrible. He couldn’t want magic. That would be too…weird. That couldn’t be it—he had to mean something else. 

“How are we getting to the train?” 

“We will be apparating to a point near the platform,” Dumbledore said. 

Hazel nodded. She had read a book on magical transportation and apparition was the favored mode of transport by most adult witches and wizards. It was instantaneous and could take you very far—although there were limits. The more skilled you were, the farther you could apparate. Only someone like Dumbledore should attempt inter-continental apparition. 

Hazel finished up her breakfast and went to her room to retrieve her trunk, wondering if they would be coming back here for the next summer. Dumbledore had indicated that he had many properties, so she rather doubted it. As it was, she doubted that Professor Snape would be staying with them next summer, so she knew that even if they returned to this place it wouldn’t be the same. Daphne would tell her she was a nutter for enjoying Professor Snape’s company, but the man really wasn’t so bad. 

She dragged her trunk out of her room and met the rest of them outside without looking back. Looking back would only make leaving that much harder. She never thought that leaving for Hogwarts would be a sad occasion, but it was indeed. She would no longer be able to spend her days flying free and she would no longer have Albus and Professor Snape mostly to herself. She was gaining much, but she was losing much in turn. 

She looked at Professor Snape, who reached out his hand. She took his hand and firmly grasped it, knowing that letting go mid-apparition could result in splinching, something she would rather not experience. Then she felt a pull behind her bellybutton, dragging her away from Flamel Cottage. 

When they landed in London, it was all she could do not to empty the contents of her stomach onto Professor Snape’s shoes. He was looking at her expectantly and had not yet let go of her hand. 

“Nausea is to be expected after your first apparition,” he said. 

Hazel pulled her hand away and covered her eyes. “That was awful, professor. I think I much prefer flying.” 

He sneered but said nothing before setting off at an unforgiving pace towards King’s Cross, leaving Hazel scrambling behind him. 

*HP* 

Severus could scarcely believe his eyes. The Greengrass girl had sent a letter stating that Hazel Potter was not on the train. He had dropped her off just outside the platform—there was no way anything bad could have happened to her in the ten feet to the platform, not with all those witches and wizards around. 

And then he saw the newspaper. _FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES_. 

Rage roiled in his stomach. That stupid, stupid girl. Of all the things! _A flying car_. He didn’t know how she went about finding one, but he knew that only a Potter would have been able to. Only a Potter—only a Potter. 

He stormed up the staircase, towards the Great Hall. He wouldn’t be dining tonight. He didn’t care about the rumors that would surely swirl with his absence—worse had been and would be said about him. He was only set on finding the accursed girl and the idiotic fool that had escorted her to the castle. 

He found her standing there with a red-head—a Weasley, of course. That explained the flying car. Arthur Weasley never could resist tinkering with Muggle objects, his own laws be damned. That boy was nothing but bad for her, leaving her to die and risking her life in a flying car. 

“Hang on…” he heard the girl say. “There’s an empty chair at the staff table…Where’s Professor Snape?” 

“Maybe he’s ill!” said Weasley hopefully. “Maybe he’s left—because he’s missed out on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again. Or maybe he’s been sacked, we all hate him.” 

“—I don’t—” 

“Or maybe,” he said, in his coldest voice, “he’s waiting to hear why you two didn’t arrive on the school train.” 

The two red-headed children turned to face him, pale-faced. The girl shrank back from him, but Weasley looked at him defiantly. “Follow me,” he said. 

The trip to his office was taken in silence, the two unlikely companions not even daring to look at each other. Albus was wrong—there would be no day when the girl was happy for this boy’s friendship. He brought her nothing but trouble, and he was determined the girl see that. 

When they reached the heavy oak door of his office, he pushed it open, not caring about the loud bang when it struck the wall. Everyone else was in the Great Hall, there was no one here to disturb. He didn’t even care when a large glass jar fell from its place on the shelf and shattered on the floor. All he cared about was dealing with the two imbeciles in front of him, one an imbecile whose fate he cared about very much. 

“So,” he said, losing all control of his temper, but keeping his voice soft and even . “The train isn’t good enough for the famous Hazel Potter…not only that, but neither is the company of her friends…she had to take an attempted murderer along with her!” 

The girl stuck out her jaw. “Ron never meant--!” She stopped herself abruptly, realizing what she was about to say. 

“Yes, they never do,” he said, his eyes glittering. “Fifty points from Slytherin for lying to me and the Headmaster.” 

“That was last year, you can’t—” 

“And another fifty for risking the exposure of our world!” 

“One hundred points, professor!” 

“And detention with me for a month. You should be very happy you weren’t expelled. I don’t know if Weasley should be so lucky. Unfortunately, the power to expel him lies with Professor McGonagall and not myself. I am certain this hare-brained scheme could not have been attempted without him. Now silence, while we await the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall.” 

It was ten long minutes before they arrived. He counted his breaths and tried to calm himself down, but he couldn’t believe the girl had done something so foolish _again_. Her antics last year could be attributed to lack of proper care for her, but Albus was not a negligent guardian. No, the blame for the girl’s actions fell solely at her own feet today. 

The door slipped open. He was glad to see Minerva—now he wouldn’t be at risk of killing the latest and most foolish Weasley brat. 

“Explain,” Minerva said. 

The girl opened her mouth to speak, but Weasley beat her to it, launching into some ridiculous story about how the barrier wouldn’t open for them. 

“—so we had no choice, Professor, we couldn’t get on the train.” 

“Why didn’t you send us a letter by owl? I believe _you_ have an owl?” Professor McGonagall said coldly to Hazel. 

The girl gaped at her. 

That would have been the obvious, responsible thing to do. All summer he and Albus had been trying to teach her to stop and think, and the first test of this new habit, she failed. Severus was not surprised. It never sunk into her father’s thick skull either. 

“I—I didn’t think—” 

“That,” said Professor McGonagall, “is obvious.” 

A knock sounded on the office door. He opened it to find Albus standing there, looking unusually grave. He looked down his crooked nose at the two children, who were looking anywhere but the disappointed headmaster. 

After a long silence, Albus said, “Please explain why you did this.” 

The girl told the story this time, looking down at her knees rather than the Headmaster. She told him everything, except for where the blasted car came from, though that wasn’t hard to guess. When the girl finished, Albus continued to peer at them through his spectacles. 

“We’ll go get our stuff,” said Weasley, making as much sense as usual. 

“What are you talking about, Weasley?” barked Professor McGonagall. 

“You’re expelling us, aren’t you?” said the boy. 

The girl looked up at Albus, a hopeless sort of look in her eyes. 

“Not today, Mr. Weasley,” said Dumbledore. “But I must impress upon both of you the seriousness of what you have done. I will be writing your family tonight, and Hazel and I will have a very long discussion on the matter. I must also warn you that if you do anything like this again, I will have no choice but to expel you.” 

“Surely the boy ought to be punished more,” Severus said. “The girl _admitted_ his involvement in her attack, and this harebrained scheme could not have been executed without him!” 

“Yes, Severus, but not expulsion. I believe that one hundred points from Gryffindor for lack of judgment and a month’s detention should well account for both incidents.” 

Severus snarled but said nothing further, sitting down behind his desk. 

*HP* 

“I thought we’d had it,” Ron said, shoveling some pudding into his mouth. “McGonagall looked fit to kill.” 

“Not as scary as Professor Snape,” she murmured, glancing around. They were in his office, after all—she wouldn’t put it past him to still be watching them, somehow. 

“No, I reckon the great git is still scarier than her.” 

“Ron! He’s not so bad.” 

Ron snorted. “He was going to expel us!” 

“Not us—you.” 

“He always does favor Slytherin.” 

Haze grinned. There was no denying that. 

The two friends ate their meal, talking happily of the year before, and all they had missed in each other’s lives. Hazel found that she was glad she hadn’t given up on Ron entirely, whatever Daphne and Hermione thought. After all, one could never have too many friends.


	15. Chapter 15

Sweat poured down his brow. He bolted upright in bed. Curse Lucius. Curse his father. Curse his entire miserable life. Azkaban had left its mark on him, but it was Lucius’s insinuations about his father that had brought on these nightmares—of that much, he was sure. It had been years since he had these dreams with such frequency and intensity, years until that bastard had mentioned him. If his father was alive, he didn’t want to know—he was happy to live in ignorance and forget about that hateful man. 

But it wasn’t as if Tobias had ever let him have any peace. 

He stepped into his house shoes and reached for his pocket watch. He flipped it open. He hadn’t even been asleep for three hours, but sleep didn’t come easily these days, not since Azkaban. Sleeping draughts could only offer so much of a respite—they were addictive and quickly lost efficacy. Poppy would have his head if he took more than one per week. 

Lying sleepless in bed was an unpalatable option, so he decided he might as well do something he enjoyed. 

Once he pulled his wand from under his pillow and slipped into his nightshirt, he stalked through the corridors. He was alone with his thoughts, which was always dangerous, but knew he wouldn’t be for long. There was always some wayward students to reprimand— 

“Come on, Hazelnut,” an only too familiar voice carried down the hall. 

“Don’t want to keep those house elves waiting!” 

“Hot chocolate—” 

“—warm milk—” 

“—anything your heart desires!” 

The insufferable girl yawned. “How do I get in again?” 

“Tickle the pear!” the two voices said in unison. 

He cast his eyes around, looking for the troublesome trio. He caught sight of three disembodied pairs of feet. How dare that foolish girl! After last year, she knew better than to be out of bounds at night. After last year, she knew the dangers that lurked for her in these halls. And of all the people for her to befriend, she had to choose the troublemakers of the most infuriating family he had ever encountered. 

“Shhh,” the girl said. “Someone will hear.” 

“Nah,” one of the twins said. “There isn’t anyone to hear—” 

“Quite the contrary, Mr. Weasley. There is someone very interested in hearing just why the three of you are this far from your common rooms, many hours after curfew, as well as what you have been up to in the intervening time.” 

“Professor,” Hazel said, pulling the cloak off them. “I-I—” 

“Particularly when one of you have already cost her House one-hundred points this term! Fifty more, Miss Potter, and fifty each from the pair of you.” 

“Professor—” 

“Perhaps you think being the Headmaster’s ward and Girl Who Lived affords you special privileges. I assure you, it does not. Another week’s detention with me.” 

“Yes, professor,” the girl said, her eyes downcast. 

“I am also taking your invisibility cloak until you can prove yourself to be worthy of it again.” 

“No!” she said. “Please, professor, it was my dad’s!” 

He supposed he ought to feel guilty, taking an heirloom from the girl when she had so little of her parents, but all he felt was vindictive glee at finally getting his hands on James Potter’s accursed invisibility cloak. Albus would be disappointed, but he wouldn’t be able to override him without undermining him, which he knew the old man would refuse to do. 

“I do not care, Miss Potter. What I do care about is putting an end to your newfound tendency towards delinquency. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley, the pair of you have detention with Mr. Filch.” 

The two troublemakers groaned but knew better than to protest. 

After he escorted the two boys to the Gryffindor common room, he was left alone with the girl once more. Her eyes were defiant, but carefully trained on her feet. One prod would set the girl raving, and he knew just what to say. 

“How like your foolish father you are,” he said, sneering. “He too thought himself special, above the rules.” 

“I don’t think I’m special!” she protested, struggling to keep up with his long strides. “I just—” 

“Think rules don’t apply to you, like those insufferable friends of yours. Tell me, Miss Potter, why you take leave of your senses at the first opportunity? Do you not realize that danger still lurks in this castle, that there are those here who would have you dead without a second thought?” 

“Hogwarts is safe! And I wasn’t alone—I was with my friends.” 

“Yes, and what excellent friends they are, always leading you into trouble. Don’t think I have not heard complaints from the other professors about your recent trend towards delinquency, Miss Potter. Being late for class. Disrupting other students with prank spells. My, even Madame Pince who found you to be the rare tolerable student has discussed your recent change in behavior. Let me assure you, Miss Potter, that I will not tolerate your misbehavior. Tell me, Miss Potter, what has changed?” 

“Is that a rhetorical question?” she challenged. “Because I think you know the answer.” 

“Five points from Slytherin for cheek, Miss Potter. Now, tell me.” 

“Don’t blame the Weasleys! That’s not fair.” 

“Life is not fair, Miss Potter. Tell me why I should not think it is the influence of those red-haired menaces when you behaved quite well during the summer.” 

“I didn’t,” she said. “I’ve always been like this. I rode my broom when I wasn’t supposed to. I snuck out to the corridor last year. I broke curfew investigating the Mirror of the Erised. I lied for Ron, so he didn’t get in trouble. Professor, if you honestly think my misbehaving has just begun, you’re blind.” 

He narrowed his eyes. “It may not have just begun, but I assure you, it is swiftly coming to an end. Misters Weasley are nothing but trouble, and I expected you to have sense enough to realize that.” 

Now the girl’s eyes narrowed. “They’re not ‘nothing but trouble,’” she said. “They were trying to cheer me up.” 

“Pray tell precisely what about your life leaves you in need of cheering up, Miss Potter. You have a guardian who takes an interest in you, friends, popularity, fame. Tell me, what is so wrong that you need those two miscreants to take you on a late night excursion?” 

The girl clamped her jaw shut and stared up at him defiantly. 

“I didn’t take you for a liar, Miss Potter. Another twenty-five points from Slytherin. Now go to bed.” 

The girl stomped off through the narrow passage to the common room. 

He let out a frustrated sigh before turning away. Just when he thought the girl couldn’t get more impossible. 

*HP* 

“Hazel, why weren’t you in bed last night? And why is the Slytherin hourglass eighty points light?” 

Hermione tutted. “What about the Gryffindor one? _One-hundred points._.” 

“Please tell me you didn’t go looking for the voice,” Daphne said, exasperated. “If it’s something real you’re hearing and not a trick, it’s going to be nothing but trouble. I’d like my second year to be a bit more peaceful than my first.” 

Hazel rolled her eyes. The twins sat down on either side of her. 

“Long time--” 

“--no see!” 

Hazel grinned, but the smile fell from her face as she glanced at the head table, where Snape was watching. His black eyes bored into hers. She tossed her hair and looked away, throwing her arms around Fred and George. 

“Pity Professor Snape caught us,” Hazel said. 

“Yeah--” 

“--the old git.” 

Hermione tutted again. “That’s not a very good thing to say about a professor, you two. I rather think the three of you got what you deserved, sneaking around for no good reason.” 

“But it was for a good reason, Hermione!” Fred said. 

“Poor Hazelnut hasn’t been herself.” 

“And you and Daphne won’t tell us why.” 

“Me either,” Ron said sullenly. 

“Ah, little brother,” George said. 

“I suppose we can let the little ladies have their secrets, at least this once,” Fred said. 

“After all--” 

“--we have ours.” 

The twins shared a pointed look with Ron. 

Hazel considered what the Weasleys might be hiding, but decided it was probably just a ploy to get her to spill her own secrets. She liked the Weasleys, but she wasn’t about to tell them everything--she still hadn’t told Hermione and Daphne the details of how she had come to be Dumbledore’s ward along with her cousin. And if she told the Weasleys about the voice, they might think she was crazy and tell someone else. Hermione and Daphne knew her, knew that she wasn’t insane. 

She did wonder if it had something to do with the remarkably shy Ginny Weasley, who was currently eating at the Gryffindor table with Percy, head bowed low over a meager portion of food. The girl blushed or turned pale everytime she encountered her. Daphne had blasely asked the poor girl if she had a crush on Hazel, causing both Hazel and Ginny to turn a furious shade of red. Ginny had scurried off after that, and no one, not even Percy could find her for the rest of the day. 

Just as Hazel moved to take her first bite of sausage, Hedwig dropped a package onto her plate, sending food flying across the table. Some of it landed on Ron’s plate. He grinned and shovelled a piece of sausage into his mouth. Hedwig fluttered downwards, perching on Hazel’s shoulder. She stroked the snowy owl, smiling as she nipped at her fingers before flying off towards the owlery again. 

With deft fingers, she pulled the paper wrapping and string off the package, recognizing the loopy handwriting at once. Albus. She looked across the hall to where Dudley sat--he too had received a similarly sized package. This was her first year at school with a proper guardian--she wondered if it was a care package of sweets and reminders of home that so many students receive at the beginning of each school year. 

Hermione squealed in excitement as the wrapping fell off the package. Books. How quintessentially Albus. Hermione, unable to help herself, reached across the table to grab the top book. Her brows furrowed, she looked at the spine, which simply said _Occlumency_ in aged gold letters. 

“Occlumency?” Hermione said. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it. It must be very old or very advanced.” 

Daphne snorted. “A book Hermione hasn’t heard of? I’m shocked.” 

Hazel thumbed through the rest of the books--some of them were Muggle novels, but two more were about advanced defensive magic, and another was about soul magic. Hermione reached for them greedily, but Hazel shook her head and magicked the wrapping back into place when she saw Draco approaching. 

“Just when I thought this school couldn’t get any filthier,” he drawled. “Dumbledore goes and brings in an actual Muggle, not just mudbloods. I swear the old man gets barmier by the day.” 

Hazel clenched her fists. Forget magic--she just wanted punch Malfoy in the face. Albus was the first adult to give her a real home, to show her affection, and Dudley was the only family she had left. She wasn’t about to sit there and let Draco insult them, Albus’s instructions to behave and the potential for detention be damned. 

“Easy there, Hazelnut,” George said. “Let me and Fred handle this one.” 

And before she could blink, the twins were brandishing their wands. And before McGonagall could swoop down upon them, they had Malfoy dangling upside down, robes about his head, green underpants on display for the entire hall. Hazel burst into laughter, and many others soon joined her. Hermione tried to look disapproving, but a grin broke through. 

“Let me down! Let me down!” Draco demanded, his voice muffled by his robes. 

“I don’t think we will,” Fred said. “Not until you apologize to Hazel here.” 

But she would never know if Draco was going to apologize, because he dropped from the air just as a nasally voice sounded beside her. 

“Miss Potter, Misters Weasleys. Forgive me, but I had thought our chat last night would have been more impactful. Fifty points from Slytherin, and one-hundred more from Gryffindor.” 

“You didn’t hear what Malfoy said!” Hazel protested. Of course it had to be Professor Snape--Professor McGonagall would have taken maybe half as many points and left it at that, and would have taken points from Malfoy as well, if she had heard what he said. She didn’t stand for any nonsense, but she was fair. 

Professor Snape was a different beast altogether. 

*HP* 

When he saw Malfoy dangling upside-down from _that_ spell, he saw red. He couldn’t think of anything but _that_ day. And he couldn’t hear anything but himself saying _that_ word. 

And Lily smiling and Potter laughing at him, just as Hazel and the Weasleys were the Malfoy boy. 

Without thinking, he grabbed the girl by her arm, dragging her away, not caring for her protests or pleas. He saw the twin menaces sharing a look, heard Greengrass and Granger say the girl had nothing to do with it. He didn’t care. The whole thing smacked of Potter. Someone--he didn’t know who--but someone had told the girl. And when he found out who had, he was going to tear them limb from limb. How dare they, how dare they! 

“Professor, you’re hurting me!” the small voice cut through his angry thoughts. 

He dropped the girl’s arm, staring blankly at the red marks on her wrist where he had gripped her. Albus was going to kill him. Familiar self-loathing was starting to replace his anger. He took several deep breaths--the girl wasn’t Potter, nor was she Lily, however she looked. 

“I had thought better of you, Miss Potter. Does Slytherin House mean nothing to you? I hope you recall our first rule.” 

“Present a united front,” she whispered. “But sir, Malfoy was saying awful things about Albus and Dudley.” 

“Words are just that,” he said, feeling every inch the hypocrite. Had he not always been ready to fight Potter and his gang over the simple childish insult _Snivellus_? Had he not lost his one true friend over, _just a word_? 

The girl flushed red. “I know, professor. I-I don’t know what’s come over me lately. It’s like I know things are a bad idea, but I just can’t help myself. Albus doesn’t need me to defend him.” 

He looked at the girl, refusing to meet her eyes. He was tempted to blame this streak of mischief on Potter, but he knew it was Lily too. Lily had always been surrounded by friends and laughter. She was a good student, yes, but no saint, not to anyone but him. She had quite the habit of getting even with anyone who threatened or insulted her friends. And how many nights had they snuck out to the kitchens together, sharing secrets? How many times had they been late for class, because they had lingered over their meal, desperate to recapture those hours of solitude they had shared in Cokeworth? 

“Professor?” she said, pulling him from his reminiscence. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s no matter, Miss Potter,” he said. “But you will be serving detention with me tonight, rather than attending the feast. And twenty-five points to Slytherin for willingly acknowledging your own wrongdoing.” 

A smile split the girl’s face. “Yes, sir.” 

When she arrived for detention that night, her face was solemn. Perhaps there had been something to what she had said last night--the Weasleys were cheering her up. It was not since she had suspected him a murderer that the girl had been so blank in his presence. She was pale and sweat dripped down her brow. 

“You’ll be writing an essay on why your behavior has been so abysmal as of late,” he said. “Two feet. You’ll write until it is done.” 

He waited for acknowledgement from the girl, not looking up from the papers he was marking. The girl didn’t answer. “Miss Potter!” he snapped, looking up. 

The girl was bone white. Something had her frightened--guilt churned in his stomach once more. He had been strict, yes, but surely she was not afraid of him. Against his will, his dark eyes slid down to her wrists, where bruises had formed. He had done that to the girl. _You’re no better than Tobias_ , his mind supplied. 

Narrowing his eyes, he tried to make eye contact with the girl, desperate to figure out what had her so out of sorts. But when he looked into her mind, he heard only sibollant hisses. The world spun around him as he pulled himself out of her mind--he had not heard such sounds since the Dark Lord. To find them in the girl’s mind--it was unthinkable. 

“Miss Potter,” he said, this time softer. “Is there anything you would like to tell me?” 

She shook her head. “No,” she said. 

Stubborn, impertinent child! “Then get to work!” 

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, sitting down at the rickety desk she always favored. She pulled out a piece of parchment and spun her quill in her hand. 

Then he heard the scratching of her quill. He smirked. He would have her secrets soon enough. 

*HP* 

Why had she changed, in these short few months? Was it as pronounced as Professor Snape seemed to believe? She didn’t know. It was a hard thing to think about for a child, comparing the past self to the current self and then thinking about what she wanted her future self to be. Perhaps she was becoming someone else, or perhaps she was only becoming more herself, now that she was no longer beaten down and fearful. 

At least regarding the Dursleys. 

Hogwarts was supposed to be her home, her refuge, but now she feared what she was becoming. She was becoming someone Professor Snape didn’t like, and that bothered her. And then there was the voice, making her sometimes timid and sometimes bold. She didn’t know where it came from or what it meant, only that it could mean nothing good. Albus would likely have an explanation, but she feared what would happen to her if he didn’t, and she didn’t even want to think what Professor Snape would say. 

_Yet another thing you think makes you special,_ she imagined him sneering. No, she wanted Professor Snape to like her, to believe in her, not think her an attention seeking fathead. 

She put her quill to the parchment and began writing what she thought he wanted to hear, because the truth didn’t bear telling. 

She wrote about how sometimes she thought Fred and George were funny, but how she didn’t like it when they were cruel. She wrote how she admired the Weasley’s bravery and loyalty, how she wanted to be like them, even if it made her a snake in the lion’s den. She simply didn’t know how to excise the good from the bad. She wanted to fit in with someone--she knew she would always have Daphne and Hermione, but part of her longed for something more. 

She wanted to belong. Her writing wasn’t all lies--that was true enough. 

In the Muggle world she was that freak with the baggy, faded clothes, the idiot cousin of the biggest bully in the school. In the wizarding world, she was a hero. Only her friends saw her as Hazel, just Hazel, and that’s all she wanted to be seen as. She suspected even Albus saw her as a piece in a bigger game from time to time, and then there was Professor Snape, who she suspected didn’t see her at all. 

_”...so hungry...for so long…”_

Hazel dropped her quill. 

Professor Snape scowled at her. “Please forgo the dramatics, Miss Potter.” 

“I-I’ve finished,” she said, scribbling the last words onto the parchment. It was just shy of two feet, but she planned to be out the door before Professor Snape was any the wiser. She had to find the source of the voice, before anyone got hurt. What if it was some horrid monster, and it burst into the Great Hall? What if it caught Hermione, Daphne, or the Weasleys? She couldn’t bear the thought. 

She curled up the parchment and dropped it on his desk before bolting out the door. 

She raced down the corridor, seeking out the source of the voice. _“Kill...time to kill…”_. The hisses grew louder and louder, and she heard the sound of running water. It was going to kill someone. She didn’t wish that on anyone, not even Malfoy, not even the Dursleys. She had to stop it, somehow. 

_”I smell blood...I SMELL BLOOD!”_

Water splashed around her ankles as she ran. 

And then nothing but the sound of a wailing ghost and running water. 

“MISS POTTER!” 

Hazel turned around to face her professor, pale-faced and afraid. She was vaguely aware of two firm hands on her shoulders, shaking her, calling her back to herself. She looked up into Professor Snape’s face, expecting to see his familiar, murderous expression, but instead his face was blank and white. 

“Professor?” 

She turned around to see what had captured his attention so. _The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir...beware._. It was written in a red liquid that looked terribly like blood. Hazel took a step back, running into the professor, whose hand returned to her shoulder. 

“Miss Potter,” he murmured. “We must leave. It is imperative that we are not found here…” 

Unable to help herself, Hazel drew closer to the professor. “Is that Mrs. Norris?” she whispered. 

“Yes, Miss Potter. Now follow me.” 

But it was too late. A rumbling filled the corridor, the loud sounds of happy and well-fed children echoing down the hall. Hazel looked up at Professor Snape, whose grip on her shoulder had tightened. She got the impression he was doing some very fast thinking. 

“Professor!” 

The rumbling died down, as the crowd caught sight of the dangling cat and bloody text. The older students shared knowing looks as the younger ones looked on, wide-eyed. 

A shout broke through the quiet. “Enemies of the heir, beware! You’ll be next, mudbloods!” Hazel turned to glare at Draco Malfoy, noting the flush on his usually bloodless face, how his cold eyes were alive with malice. 

Professor Snape’s grip was almost painful now. 

And just when Hazel thought the situation could not get any worse, a gruff voice called, “What’s going on here? What’s going on?” 

Filch pushed his way through the crowd of students, then clutched his chest when he saw Mrs. Norris, his usual bluster faltering. 

His eyes immediately fell on Hazel. It was as if he did not see Professor Snape. 

“You’ve murdered my cat!” he screeched. “You’ve killed her. I’ll--I’ll kill you!” 

As he reached for the front of her robes, she shrunk back into Professor Snape, whose wand was now pressed to Filch’s throat. The caretaker’s pale eyes widened in disbelief. Clearly, he had thought he had an ally in Professor Snape. 

“That’s quite enough,” Professor Snape said, his voice low and deadly. 

“Severus.” Albus’s voice filled the corridor--Hazel’s shoulders slumped in relief. For a moment, it had seemed things were going to get nasty indeed, but with Albus here, she was confident that everything would be alright 

Professor Snape dropped his wand, still scowling, but Filch did not step away. 

Albus and Professor McGonagall swept past them. In one swift movement, Albus detached Filch’s beloved cat from the torch bracket. 

“Come with me, Argus,” he said. “And you too, Severus, Hazel.” 

Lockhart, who had only just arrived, stepped forward eagerly. 

“My office is nearest, Headmaster--just upstairs--please feel free--” 

“Thank you, Gilderoy,” Albus said. 

The crowd parted, allowing them to pass. Filch’s pale eyes kept darting to Hazel, then back to Professor Snape, but he didn’t say anything. Lockart, self-important as ever, trailed behind them. 

Hazel had never been to Lockhart’s office--she did her utmost to avoid the man. She could not have imagined a space more fitting for the obnoxious man. The walls--what she could see of them--were a shade of lilac, but they were mostly covered with pictures of Lockhart himself, beaming down at his visitors. A few of them ducked out of their frames, their hair in rollers. 

Albus and Professor McGonagall bent low over Mrs. Norris, casting spells and sharing whispers. Hazel strained to hear, but everything sounded fuzzy to her. Lockhart’s babbling didn’t help matters. 

“It was definitely a curse that killed her--probably the Transmogrifan Torture--I’ve seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn’t there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved her…” 

Unable to help herself, Hazel rolled her eyes and looked up at Professor Snape, who seemed to be trying to hide a smile. 

Lockhart’s continued comments were punctuated by Filch’s dry, racking sobs. The caretaker was slumped in one of Lockhart’s ostentatious chairs, looking very heartbroken and very out of place. Hazel couldn’t help but feel bad for him--she imagined how she would feel if something were to happen to Hedwig. 

Albus murmured some strange words under his breath and tapped Mrs. Norris with his wand, but nothing happened. 

“...I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadougou,” said Lockhart, “a series of attacks, the full story’s in my autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once…” 

The photographs of Lockhart nodded along, one oblivious to the hairnet still in his golden hair. 

Dumbledore straightened his back and placed his wand in his robes. 

“She’s not dead, Argus,” he said softly. 

Lockhart abruptly stopped recounting his supposed accomplishments. 

“Not dead? But why’s she all--all stiff and frozen?” 

“She has been Petrified,” said Dumbledore (“Ah! I thought so!” said Lockhart). “But how, I cannot say…” 

“Ask _them_!” Filch screeched, turning his blotched and tearstained face to Hazel and Professor Snape. Hazel glared at their accuser. 

Albus peered over his glasses, directing a piercing gaze at them. “I trust Severus with my life. He would not have done this.” 

“But he could have!” Filch raged. “He-he was a Death Eater! They sent him to Azkaban! And he knows, he knows that--I’m a squib!” 

Hazel’s eyes widened. She knew what a squib was, thanks to the books Albus had given her, but she would never have guessed Filch was one. She supposed it made sense--she never saw him use magic--but she couldn’t imagine being a Squib at Hogwarts, always reminded of what should have been yours, but you could never have. She felt another stab of pity for the formerly hated man. 

“And what were they doing in that corridor? They weren’t at the feast with everyone else!” Filch said. 

“I gave Miss Potter detention for the incident at breakfast this morning. She ran from my classroom for a reason unknown to me. I was merely following her.” 

Albus’s gaze turned to her. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. 

“I needed the loo,” she whispered. 

Professor Snape scoffed, but didn’t challenge her. 

“My cat has been Petrified! It had to be one of them!” 

“This is Dark Magic far beyond a second year, Argus. And I trust Severus. Innocent until proven guilty.” 

“I want to see some punishment!” 

“We will be able to cure her,” Albus said patiently. “Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrake. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs. Norris.” 

“I’ll make it,” Lockhart said. Hazel supposed she should not have expected the conversation to continue very long without his input. “I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep--” 

“Excuse me,” said Professor Snape icily. “But I believe I am the Potions master at this school.” 

A very awkward pause followed. 

“You may go, Hazel,” Albus said. “But I must ask if there is anything you wish to tell me.” 

“No sir,” she mumbled to her shoes. Then she left as quickly as she could without actually running.


	16. Chapter 16

“I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony,” Ron said, pushing his way through a crowd of first years who had stopped to gape at Hazel. “But I never knew he started all this pure-blood stuff. I wouldn’t be in his house if you paid me. Honestly, if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I’d’ve got the train straight back home…” 

Hazel opened her mouth to tell him off and inform him of the distinguished history of her house, but Daphne beat her to it. 

“Excuse me,” she said icily. “But Hazel and I happen to be Slytherins.” 

“The only good ones in the lot,” Ron muttered. “I forget, sometimes…” 

“Well, you’re lucky I forget what a git you are most of the time so I can tolerate you,” Daphne said. “Honestly, Ron, we’re not all evil followers of You-Know-Who. My dad was a Slytherin and happens to be an auror, you know.” 

A first year Hufflepuff rounded the corner and ran into Hazel, falling to the ground. Hazel offered the girl a hand up, but she squeaked, pushed herself to her feet, and ran in the opposite direction. Everyone thought she was the Heir of Slytherin. She didn’t know why--after all, Professor Snape had been there too, and wouldn’t the hated professor and former Death Eater be a much more likely culprit than a second year student? 

Not for the first time, she wished she was a Gryffindor. That had been her parents’ house, the house of heroes. She well remembered begging the Sorting Hat to put her in it--she wanted to be brave, good, heroic--but it wouldn’t hear it. Instead the old hat had whispered in her ear, telling her she would be great in Slytherin, that she would make her real friends there. 

When the hat declared her to be a Slytherin, she hadn’t been able to quell her fears. She had already heard of its reputation for Dark wizards and witches, how her parents’ murderer had been from that house…. 

Adrian passed them in the corridor, his tie crooked and his sandy hair tousled. He tried to stop to speak to her, but he was caught in the crowd. 

“Hazel--Hazel--watch out, Malfoy’s upset, and he’s--” 

Whatever he said next was lost in the echoing rumble of the crowd. All she heard was “--be careful--” before he was gone. 

“I wonder what Malfoy is upset about,” Ron said. 

“Probably that everyone thinks I’m the Heir of Slytherin,” she said. “I bet it’s just eating him up, that he can’t say it was him.” 

“People are afraid, Hazel,” Hermione said. “They don’t know you like we do--” 

“All they see is a green tie. I know, Hermione. It just seems so silly, what people are willing to believe about each other. Especially seeing as we don’t even know there is a Chamber of Secrets.” 

Hermione smiled sadly. “Myth often has its basis in fact,” she said. “I’m not saying there is or isn’t a chamber, just that there’s the possibility it does exist. And, well, Dumbledore couldn’t cure Mrs. Norris--that makes me think that whatever attacked her might not even be human. If there’s some monster living in Hogwarts, it would make sense that it would dwell in a secret place nobody has ever found.” 

They rounded the corner and found themselves at the end of the corridor, the scene of the attack. Nothing had changed, aside from Mrs. Norris’s removal from the bracket. The words still glistened on the wall, catching the torchlight. An empty chair sat on the opposite wall, facing the ominous words. 

“We shouldn’t be here,” Daphne said. “Filch will be lurking about. He’s been right crazy about sticking around here. It’s like he thinks the attacker will be daft enough to come back and, I don’t know, attack another cat.” 

“He’s also daft enough to think he could stop it,” Hazel said, thinking of how vulnerable Filch was as a Squib. Squibs were hardly better than Muggles to blood-purists--both he and Dudley would be targets as much as the Muggle-borns if this was more than an isolated attack. 

She looked around. The corridor was empty, and all was quiet except a ghost wailing in the girl’s bathroom. 

“Can’t hurt to have a poke around,” Hazel said, casting her eyes about for clues. 

Hazel soon found scorch marks, and Hermione noticed a long line of spiders scurrying to get through a small crack in the window frame. Ron backed away, looking as if he very much wished to be somewhere else. 

“I--don’t--like--spiders,” he said. 

A wicked grin crossed Daphne’s face. “Our brave, brave Gryffindor boy is scared of a little spider?” 

“It’s not funny,” he said. “When I was three, Fred turned my teddy into a great big filthy spider because I broke his toy broomstick…” 

He shuddered. Hazel and Daphne were clearly trying not to laugh. Hazel didn’t find it funny, even though she didn’t much mind spiders, other than that they reminded her of her cupboard. 

Hazel took a few steps towards the girl’s bathroom. “I wonder if Moaning Myrtle knows anything about it.” 

“Can’t hurt to ask,” Daphne said. 

They moved towards the door. Daphne and Hermione walked through, and Hazel turned and raised a brow at Ron. “Coming?” 

“Can’t go in there,” he said. “That’s a girls’ toilet.” 

“Suit yourself,” she said, stepping inside. 

Hazel never used this toilet if she could help it. Strictly speaking, it was out of order, but there was nothing really wrong with it, if you could ignore Moaning Myrtle. The mirrors were cracked and spotted and the sinks were chipped. There were no windows--the only light came from candle stubs that looked as though they had not been replaced in a very long time. The wooden doors to the stalls were scratched, the paint flaking, and one dangled from its hinges. Moaning Myrtle hovered just outside the most dilapidated stall. 

“Hello, Myrtle,” Hazel said mildly. 

Myrtle glared at her. “I don’t know you--but you’re a Slytherin. Olive Hornby was a Slytherin, she and her friends were always saying awful things about me…” 

“I’m not like that,” she said. “I’m Hazel Potter. I’ve, er, heard about you.” 

“Oh, and what have you heard? That I’m a fat, ugly, pimply, four-eyed baby? Oh, I’ve heard it all before, go ahead and tell me what you’ve heard!” 

“No, it’s not like that,” Hazel said. “I-I know what it’s like to be bullied, I’d never do that to someone.” 

Myrtle’s eyes narrowed. Hermione and Daphne shared a look--Hazel had never said anything about being bullied before, aside from her few encounters with Malfoy. 

“What do you have to be bullied about? You’re, well, pretty.” 

“Oh, people will find anything to find fault with,” she said vaguely. “Point is, I’m not here to make fun of you. No one wants to upset you.” 

That was the wrong thing to say. 

“No one wants to upset me! That’s a good one!” howled Myrtle. “My life was nothing but a misery at this place and now people come along ruining my death.” 

“Really, Myrtle,” Daphne said dryly. “If you wanted a peaceful death, you should have gone on.” 

Myrtle gave a tragic sob before diving headfirst into her toilet, splashing water all over them. Hazel scrunched her nose--toilet water was inherently disgusting, never mind cleaning spells and the disuse of these toilets. 

“Come on, you two, that was honestly almost cheerful for her…” 

Hazel had only just closed the door on Myrtle’s muffled sobs when a nasally voice caused them all to jump. Professor Snape was standing there, holding Ron by the top of his robe. 

“Why am I not surprised, Miss Potter? I knew the moment I saw your cretinous friend...lurking...outside. Perhaps you learned nothing from last year about becoming involved in things which do not concern you.” 

Hazel blushed at the reminder of their ill-fated trip to investigate the protections on the stone. 

“It’s not against the rules to use the toilet, sir,” she said. 

“Quite right,” he said. “But one must wonder, Miss Potter, why you chose this one when it’s so very far from any place you ought to be.” 

Hazel looked into his eyes, ignoring the prickling sensation she felt. She knew what he was doing, thanks to Albus’s book, and resented it. He had no business poking around in her mind. She might trust him, like him, even, but she didn’t fancy having anyone looking in her head without her express permission. 

To her surprise, he looked away first. 

“Come along, Miss Potter,” he said at last. “You and I must discuss that abysmal piece of writing you produced in detention.” 

With one look back at her friends, she followed Professor Snape down the corridor, dreading the conversation to come. 

*HP* 

He sat down behind his desk, pinning the girl with a piercing stare. She squirmed in her chair. That was a reaction he understood well enough. He knew all about fear, feeling it and inspiring it. Other emotions, not so much, which was what led him to have this conversation with the impossible girl. He had never understood the workings of children’s minds, not even when he had been one, but he suspected even Minerva would balk at the load of tripe the girl had handed him on Halloween. 

Lucius found endless amusement in him being a teacher, of all things. He was supposed to have insight into young people’s minds, given his (not) chosen profession. But he didn’t. He loathed children. He didn’t understand them, especially not girls. Even though he had been friends with Lily for years, he had never understood her. It came so naturally for the other professors--Minerva, Filius, and Pomona all had a talent for understanding the little beasts--and none of them could hold a candle to Albus, who always knew just what they were thinking, without even stooping to using Legilimency. 

Oh, he knew what the students thought, in the most literal sense. He knew well the names they called him when they thought he couldn’t hear. When the rare student came along and played it close to the vest, he could look into their mind without them being any the wiser. But he didn’t understand _why_ they thought what they did, where those ignorant and ill-formed opinions came from. They baffled him, not that he would ever admit it. 

And the girl in front of him was the most baffling of all. 

Even after her relatives’ abuse, she was a happy and kind girl. When he had suffered what she had, it had turned him bitter and hateful, which in turn made him hated and bitter. He would hate his parents until his dying breath, whereas the girl had forgiven one of her chief tormentors, that stupid Dursley boy. He had turned away from everyone, except Lily, though she had ultimately turned from him. Yet the girl was surrounded by friends and admirers, the recent rumors aside. She was curious and interfering (just like her guardian), yet trusting and true. She wasn’t afraid to feel, unlike him. She was happy, unlike him, and probably always would be. 

She was staring at him now, most likely wondering why he had pulled her away from her friends for a conversation they weren’t yet having. He looked into her eyes, into her mind, his gut churning as her eyes narrowed into angry slits. He felt a feeble flailing against him, as the girl struggled to order her thoughts and shut him out, but it was useless. His legilimency was behind only Albus’s and the Dark Lord’s. 

Then he heard that hissing again, just as he had heard it on Halloween. What it meant, he didn’t know, but he did know hearing Parseltongue in the mind of this particular girl could not be a good sign. 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said, dragging him away from his thoughts. 

“Excuse me?” he said coldly. “I don’t see where your wishes enter the picture, Miss Potter.” 

“If you want to know something, you could always ask me,” she said cheekily. 

He nearly snorted. “And I am certain you would be forthcoming with answers to my questions.” 

“I might not tell you something, professor, but I wouldn’t lie to you,” she said. 

“I suppose Albus taught you that particular trick,” he muttered. “But I’ll play along. Tell me, what does this rot you wrote mean?” 

A blush crept up her chest and onto her face. “I didn’t think I’d have to talk about it.” 

“I’m surprised you can think at all, with as much sense as this paper makes. Tell me, what are you afraid of?” 

The girl looked away from him, at a candle sitting on his desk, a contemplative look on her face. At least she was thinking about it, rather than spurting out the first thing that came to mind. That’s what a Gryffindor would do, though, and he expected better of his Slytherins. 

After a long moment, she spoke. “I don’t know, Professor. Change and changing, I guess. Everything is so different, this year--I never thought that Ron and the Weasleys would be my friends, not after last year, but they are. I thought I was stuck at the Dursleys. I mean, I’m happy with what’s changed so far, but I feel like I’m not the Hazel Potter I used to be, and sometimes I miss her.” 

He raised a brow, privately impressed. He had not expected a twelve-year-old girl to be so candid about her feelings, let alone have that level of insight. He certainly hadn’t until his twenties and still lacked it at times, if he was being honest. Something warm filled him--the girl was telling this to _him_ of all people, that had to mean something. Perhaps she really did trust him, despite all that had transpired between them. 

Albus had certainly been a good influence on her. That warm feeling turned to something bitter--where would he be if Albus had looked past _his_ green tie? Where would he be if someone, anyone had truly cared about him when he was a child? 

_But someone did,_ his mind whispered. _And you pushed her away_. Lily had cared, up to the moment that accursed word had slipped out of his mouth. And with Lily came her parents and their love and caring. Henry Evans, the kind English professor who loved his books, with his red hair, green eyes, and sloppy tie, always with a witty joke and ready smile. He had fought in the war, but he hadn’t let it destroy him. He was everything Tobias Snape was not--smart, friendly, loving, brave. And then there was Violet Evans, a placid woman, a faithful wife, and a loving mother. She was nothing like Eileen Snape, who was quick to anger and even quicker to hurt her son. The Evans’s had been older when they had their children, being twenty years the Snape’s senior, but they were better for it: their children were cherished treasures, instead of an unwanted burden. 

It may have been Lily who showed him friendship, but it was her parents who taught him about love and what a family should be. They had loved Severus as if he were their own--Henry and Violet would stop to speak to him on the street even after Lily had declared him beyond redemption, even while their daughters looked on beside them, eyeing him with contempt. They had cared about him, they truly had. If only he hadn’t had his stubborn pride. As a child, he had thought their attempts to help him pity and charity, but it hadn’t been. He knew now it was love, and the Evans’s would have whisked him away from Tobias and Eileen, if only he had been brave enough to say the words. 

He couldn’t help but wonder what Henry and Violet would think of him now, of the tangled web of his life. Somehow he thought that Henry would still stop him on the corner to tell him about a new book he had read. Somehow he knew that Violet would still pull him into a tight hug and whisper that it would all be okay. He had unwittingly taken their daughter’s life after foolishly pledging his own to a madman, but they would have forgiven him, even though he couldn’t forgive himself. He didn’t know how he knew this, but he was as certain of it as he was Golpalott’s Third Law. Henry and Violet had no doubt heard what he became from Lily, but they had never treated him any differently than they had when he was their daughter’s shadow--they had treated him with respect and kindness until the day they died in that horrible car crash in Manchester, on their way home from Henry’s favorite author’s lecture. 

He knew, too, that they would be proud of the girl in front of him. If he was a better man, he would have told her so, but that part of him was too carefully hidden. Instead he opted for his favorite mask--biting spite. 

“That’s maudlin rot worthy of a Gryffindor,” he said, watching the girl’s face contort in anger and confusion. “Now tell me, _what are you afraid of_?” 

“I just told you!” 

“No, you obfuscated. What were you scared of, Halloween night, when you ran down the corridor, _straight to the scene of an attack?_ ” 

“I-I--” the girl began. 

“Choose your words carefully, girl,” he said. “You promised not to lie, and I _will_ have points from you if you do.” 

He had her thoroughly boxed in with her own sentiments. He would have her secrets now. 

But she looked up at him, defiance in her features, a spark of it in her hazel eyes. “I also said I might not tell you, and I won’t.” 

Rage twisted his face--he wasn’t used to this quiet, confident non-compliance in his students. It was infuriating enough on Albus, but to have this slip of a girl use it on him was unpalatable. 

She might have scored a point, but he would strike the final blow. “Ten points from Slytherin,” he said. 

“What?” she said. “You’re--” she snapped her mouth shut, evidently thinking better of what she was about to say. 

His eyes glistened dangerously. “Go ahead and finish your surely ill-advised statement, now that you’ve begun it.” 

“First you look in my mind without my permission,” she snapped. “And then you try to force me to tell you my _private_ thoughts! You, professor, are sticking your big nose where it doesn’t belong!” 

The girl then stormed off without being dismissed. A smirk crossed his face. He knew he ought to be furious about her disrespect, but that outburst was pure Lily. He had pushed her, and she had reacted. He found himself enjoying the girl’s company rather more now that she wasn’t a fearful doormat. Perhaps there was more to her than he had previously thought. 

*HP* 

Hazel slid down into her usual seat between the twins, head in her hands. She could not believe she said that. Oh, Professor Snape must be furious! He would surely tell Albus, and then she would get that horrible twisted feeling in her stomach, like she did every time she did something that caused Albus to be disappointed. Albus never raged at her, he didn’t even really lecture her. Sometimes she wished he would. It would be better than his gentle disappoint and quiet suggestions as to what she could have done and might do in the future. 

“Did you do something to get detention again?” Hermione asked. 

She glanced up at the high table, where Professor Snape was taking his seat. He looked at her and smirked. 

“Maybe…” Hazel said. “But he hasn’t given me one. Not yet.” 

“Oh, Hazel!” Hermione said. “What did you do?” 

“I may have refused to answer his question and told him he had a big nose.” 

Daphne snorted and the three Weasleys laughed. Ron sputtered his pumpkin juice into his glass. Hermione, however, looked disapproving, as she always did where disrespecting a teacher was concerned. 

“You said that to the git?” Ron said. “And he didn’t give you detention?” 

“I may have also ran off before he had the chance to respond.” 

Fred and George shared a look. 

“We’re proud of you, Hazelnut” George said. 

“We’ve been an excellent influence,” Fred added. 

“More like terrible,” Daphne muttered. 

Just then, Hazel noticed several Hufflepuffs turned around, staring at her. Among them was Justin Finch-Fletchley, who had run away from her early today. It wasn’t hard to figure out why--he was a Muggle-born and he thought she was the Heir of Slytherin. She had been nothing but kind to Justin and his friends, and they thought the worst of her. While the thought would have once made her angry or sad, she was now just resigned to it. 

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a little fun. She smiled coyly and waved, relishing how their eyes widened as they turned away. 

“Nice one,” George said. 

“That’ll show those tossers,” Fred said. 

But the Hufflepuffs weren’t the only one staring at her. Malfoy and his friends kept sending discrete glances her way. He looked furious about something. Pansy rubbed small circles on his back as he shrugged away from her grip. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Fred called down the table. 

“You think you’re so funny, Weasley,” Malfoy said. “You and your mudblood and blood-traitor friends.” 

“At least we have friends,” George said. “You just have goons and lackeys.” 

Crabbe and Goyle shared a puzzled look. Hazel supposed they didn’t know what a goon was. 

Malfoy flushed red. “You won’t be laughing when the Heir comes for you!” he said. “You’re the biggest blood traitors in the school. And you, Potter, palling around with them! You and the likes of Snape--you miserable half-bloods--you’ll be the first to go when he returns! The Heir won’t tolerate _filth_ in Slytherin House!” 

The Weasley twins shared a look. “Snape’s a half-blood?” Fred mouthed. 

“What would you know about it?” Hazel said. If only she could get Malfoy to admit he was the heir, or knew who he was. 

“More than you!” Draco said. 

Daphne kicked her under the table. 

“Come on, Hazel,” she said. “He just wants to impress Pansy. He doesn’t know a thing. He’s nothing but a nasty little prejudiced brat.” 

“You’re right,” Hazel said, tearing her eyes away from Malfoy. “I’d best go get some rest if I want to beat Fred and George at the match tomorrow.” She smiled at her two friends, who were now protesting furiously that Gryffindor would win. 

Hazel woke early the next morning. When she made her way down to breakfast, she found the Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch teams huddled at their respective tables, which were almost empty aside from the players. She grinned at Fred and George, noting the Gryffindor captain’s scowl, and made her way to sit next to Adrian Pucey. He ran a hand through his sandy hair and smiled at Hazel. 

“It’s about time you showed up, Potter,” Marcus said, before launching into his usual speech about how it’s only illegal if you get caught. 

They made their way down to the pitch to get dressed in their green and silver Quidditch robes. It was a muggy day, but fine flying conditions, at least for the moment. There were dark clouds in the sky, hanging gloomily overhead. Derrick and Bole hefted their bats on their shoulders, flanking Hazel on each side, scowling at passersby as they made their way to the field. 

Adrian glanced at Hazel. He jerked his head to the side, indicating he wanted her to follow him under the stands. 

Once they were away from the rest of the team, he leaned closer to her. She could scarcely hear what he said over the roar of the crowd above. “I’ve been wanting to tell you this, but I can never seem to catch you. I overheard something. Marcus and that Malfoy git were talking with Professor Snape--Lucius Malfoy offered to buy the lot of us Nimbus 2001s if Professor Snape put his son on the team as Seeker. Snape offered him Montague’s spot as Chaser, but he insisted on the Seeker position. Snape ended up refusing him outright--apparently he and the Malfoys had a big row about it.” 

Hazel scowled. That sounded exactly like Malfoy. Bribing his way onto the time, trying to take her spot--oh, she would like to hex the little git. 

“Lucius Malfoy is here today--I think he’s looking for a reason that’ll convince Snape to take you off the team. He’s putting a lot of pressure on Marcus and Snape. I just wanted to let you know--fly like you’ve never flown before.” 

Hazel looked into Adrian’s brown eyes, feeling a great fondness for her friend. They hadn’t spoken much this year, but she knew she could always count on him. She fought the urge to hug him. 

“Right,” she said. “Let’s show that arse he can’t buy his slimy son a spot on our team.” 

“That’s my Hazel,” Adrian said, placing a hand on her shoulder, smiling. 

The two friends left the underside of the stands, brooms in hand, ready for the match to start. 

*HP* 

“Severus, now, you really ought to reconsider--” 

Severus’s whole body was tense. He had been listening to Lucius’s prattling for the last hour and had come close to cursing the man several times. He probably would have if Lucius wasn’t a member of the Board of Governors. Not that losing his teaching position would be any great loss, for him or the students. 

“She’s just a silly little girl. Don’t tell me you’ve let her on the team because you’re still mooning over that mudblood she has the misfortune to resemble.” 

Severus clenched his fists and started counting to ten. 

“Miss Potter earned her spot on the team,” he said icily. “Your son did not. I have witnessed both of them flying--I assure you, Miss Potter is the superior flier.” 

“So you say,” Lucius said. “How about a small wager of, say, one-hundred galleons? I say the Gryffindor boy gets the Snitch. And if he does, you let Draco onto the team.” 

His eyes narrowed. Lucius was goading him again. A small wager, one-hundred galleons! That was a week’s wages. That may be pocket change for Lucius, but it was a sum Severus could scarcely afford to lose. And Lucius knew it. Worse, he knew that Severus was touchy about money, growing up the way he had. 

But his pride would not allow him to refuge the wager, so he shook Lucius’s hand. 

He had every faith in the girl’s abilities. After all, the new Gryffindor Seeker, Cormac McLaggen, was a complete dunderhead who probably didn’t know one end of his broom from the other, if his abysmal performance and annoying antics in his class were any indicator. The boy was as pompous as James Potter and Sirius Black had been, but the girls in his year positively fawned over him, just as they had Potter and Black. All the insufferable boy talked about was Quidditch, judging by the notes he had caught him passing and the conversations he had interrupted, but he knew that obsession with Quidditch didn’t equate to talent at it. 

He turned his eyes towards the girl, watching as she soared high above the stands, until she was was little more than a speck of green against the bright sun. 

Only a few moments into the match, he moved to the edge of his seat as the girl narrowly avoided a Bludger. He cast his eyes around, expecting to see one of the twin menaces nearby, but both of them were on the opposite side of the pitch, trying to unseat Flint with the other Bludger. Bole gave the Bludger which had nearly struck the girl a powerful whack in the direction of one of the Gryffindor Chasers, but it immediately changed directions and hurled back towards the girl again. 

She turned in the air, dodging the Bludger once more. Derrick hit it away, only for it to fly at the girl again, who this time put on a burst of speed to avoid it. 

He looked at Lucius--Bludgers were not charmed to concentrate on a single player, not unless they’d been tampered with. He wouldn’t put it past Lucius to have done it, not with one-hundred galleons and his pride on the line. 

It started to rain. Slytherin had the lead at the moment, but with their Beaters concentrating on protecting the girl from that blasted Bludger, the Weasley twins had managed to knock Flint from his broom. The captain was currently laying on the ground, clutching his gut where the Bludger had struck him.Madam Pomfrey rushed onto the field. 

There wasn’t even a way for the girl to call a time-out, with their captain out of commission. 

A moment later, Bole and Derrick flew off towards the Weasley twins, leaving the girl unprotected. Of all the bone-headed things! Didn’t they know that if she was unseated, there was no way for them to win? 

He watched as the girl looped and spiraled, moving higher and higher as the Bludger came at her again and again. The crowd roared with laughter--the girl looked ridiculous, but Severus knew a less talented player would have been struck or fallen already. To him (an admittedly bad flier), her performance was impressive. 

“I do believe your beloved Seeker missed her calling as a ballet dancer,” Lucius said. 

And at just that moment, the Bludger slammed into the girl’s arm. Severus suppressed his urge to wince--it had struck her hard. It was a wonder she had managed to stay on her broom. 

“Perhaps not,” Lucius said. 

Then, in a streak of green, the girl took off, the Bludger trailing close behind. She was flying straight at the Gryffindor Seeker, who was looking at her with a bewildered expression on his face. Severus’s breath caught in his chest--the Snitch, it was hovering just below McLaggen, all he would have to do is look down… 

But the girl was faster. In a wild snatch with her left hand, she caught the Snitch, gripping the broom with only her knees. She twirled on her broom, narrowly avoiding the Bludger again as she began her descent. 

Severus pushed his way down the stands. 

When he reached the pitch, Pucey had already obliterated the Bludger that was still determinedly pursuing the girl with a clever bit of wandwork he was tempted to award points for. But another threat had made its way to the pitch, hovering over the girl, who seemed to be barely conscious. 

That buffoon had his wand drawn, brandishing it at the girl. Severus drew his own wand, itching to disarm the man, but he knew that would be entirely inappropriate. 

“No--don’t--” the girl said weakly, but Lockhart was twirling his wand. Only a moment later, he had it pointed at the girl’s arm. 

Severus grimaced as her arm curved, no longer having any structure. The Creevey boy began clicking away madly. 

“Ah,” said Lockhart. “Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. The point is, the bones are no longer broken. That’s the thing to bear in mind--” 

“You imbecile,” Severus snarled. “Of course her arm isn’t broken--there are no bones left!” 

The girl whitened. He hauled her to her feet, gripping the arm that still had bones in it tightly. The two Weasley boys hefted their bats and glared at Lockhart, flanking him as he led the girl to the hospital wing. 

He made sure to bump into Lockhart on the way, sending the man with his absurdly white teeth and perfect robes hurling into the runny mud. 

*HP* 

After Madam Pomfrey looked her over and magicked her into a hospital gown, Hazel flung herself down on the bed beside Marcus’s. She couldn’t believe that Lockhart had removed her bones. On second thought, she actually could, because the man was a complete fool. She and Hermione had read some camping books last year (the Grangers were avid campers), and she had read about a spell to debone fish, but she had never thought about someone using it on a person, though she was sure that it was entirely accidental in Lockhart’s case. She supposed she ought to be thankful it was just her arm and that Madam Pomfrey could fix it. 

Fred and George pulled two chairs up to her bedside, ignoring Marcus’s glare. 

“Lockhart’s a complete prat--I don’t know why mum is so obsessed with him,” Fred said. 

“Yeah,” George said. “If Hazel had wanted deboning, she bloody well would have asked for it.” 

Marcus shifted to face them, grimacing as he moved. “ _Deboning_ ,” he said incredulously. 

Hazel raised her arm, letting it flap pointlessly to show him the damage. Marcus shook his head. “I’m going to _kill_ him.” 

“Get in line,” Fred said. 

Madam Pomfrey came around the curtain, holding a large bottle of pearly white liquid labelled Skele-Grow. She handed it to Hazel and said, “You’re in for a rough night. Regrowing bones is a nasty business.” 

Hazel took a sip of the potion and nearly spat it out. “Not as nasty as this tastes!” she said. It burned as she swallowed it, causing her to cough and sputter. Madam Pomfrey walked off after she drank the last of it, still tut-tutting about dangerous sports and inept teachers. 

George handed her a glass of water, a look of sympathy on his face. “I always said Snape makes the potions taste as nasty as he can.” 

“Mister Weasley,” a nasally voice called from across the room. “If you paid the slightest attention in my class, you would know that extraneous ingredients often render a potion ineffective or worse. Forgive me for not going through the arduous process of modifying every common potion to make them more palatable for your senses.” 

“Git,” Fred muttered. 

Hazel glanced at Professor Snape. He didn’t look angry, so he must not have heard. 

“Now, Misters Weasley, I recommend you leave Miss Potter be and join your house in lamenting your Seeker’s sub-par performance.” 

The twins didn’t move. Fred glared at him. 

“That wasn’t a suggestion!” 

Knowing better than to argue with Professor Snape or disobey him when he was in such a mood, the twins vacated their seats and left. Professor Snape sat down in one of their seats, smirking. 

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” Hazel said. “They’re really not so bad.” 

“It is not for you to decide what I do and do not do, Miss Potter,” he said, flicking his wand. “Now be quiet. I have something I need to tell you, and that spell I cast will give us complete privacy.” 

Hazel nodded. 

“I suspect you know that Bludgers do not behave as they did today of their own volition.” 

She nodded again. 

“I trust you know what that means?” 

“Someone is trying to kill me again,” she said. 

“Indeed,” he said. “Now, Miss Potter, I implore you, _tell me what you are hiding_.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. Too quickly, she knew. 

His eyes narrowed. “That is not for you to determine,” he said. “You and your empty-headed friends don’t know enough to understand what is and is not of importance. Even the slightest detail may be significant.” 

She wouldn’t tell him. She wouldn’t. He and Albus would have her carted off to the loony bin. She shook her head. He had rooted around in her head--she didn’t understand why he didn’t already know, though was grateful that he didn’t. 

“Do you know the identity of the attacker?” he asked. 

She raised a brow. “I wouldn’t hide something like that,” she said, trailing off. “But Malfoy has been acting strange, going on about the Heir and Muggle-borns and half-bloods. I think he knows something. And I heard he wanted my spot on the team--could he have done something?” 

His lips twitched. “Mister Malfoy lacks the brains, power, and ambition to be behind these incidents.” 

“But his father doesn’t,” she said, remembering Lucius Malfoy’s presence today. “He could be telling him what to do, and he could have cast the spell on the Bludger--” 

“Lucius Malfoy did not have the opportunity to enchant the Bludger,” he said. “He was with me the entire morning. He is an old friend,” he said, though it sounded like the word friend tasted as bad in his mouth as the Skele-Grow did in hers. 

“If his father is your friend, then why does Draco hate you so much? He was raving about how the Heir was going to clean the ‘filthy half-bloods’ like me and you out of Slytherin.” 

“That is not your concern,” Professor Snape said, but he did continue. “I have known the Malfoy family since I was a child myself. Their actions are seldom what they appear to be.” 

“Are you really a half-blood like me, Professor?” she asked, thinking back on how Aunt Petunia knew who he was. “I always thought you were a pureblood.” 

“Because I was a Death Eater,” he said bitterly, surprising her by admitting it. 

“Well, yes,” she said. 

“Not all Death Eaters are purebloods, just as not all purebloods are Death Eaters. My father was a Muggle,” he said, practically spitting the word father. “I grew up in a Muggle neighborhood not far from Manchester.” 

“Is that how you knew my mum and Aunt Petunia?” she asked. She hadn’t known what to think of Aunt Petunia’s comments on her mum and Professor Snape. Every time a conversation plausibly led to her asking this summer, he masterfully steered the conversation elsewhere or mysteriously disappeared. She knew better than to believe anything Aunt Petunia said, especially when it came to her mother, but the nasty woman rarely made something up outright. She simply didn’t have the imagination for it. 

Professor Snape looked thoughtfully out the window. Then, barely more than a whisper, he said, “Yes, I knew your mother as a child. I grew up on the other end of town.” Then he turned his black eyes towards her, pausing and fixing her with a piercing stare that rivalled Albus’s. “I trust, Miss Potter, that you will keep this information to yourself?” 

Hazel nodded, desperate to hear more. She would have agreed to almost anything he wanted to learn more about her mum. She knew so little of her parents. For so many years, she had only heard them referred to as drunkards who had gotten themselves killed. Aunt Petunia had always told her that her mother was a no-good whore and her father was an amateur magician who liked the drink more than his family. To know the truth--they were good people who fought and died in the name of something greater--it made her proud. And here was someone who could tell her all about her mother, someone who wouldn’t lie to her. 

But before she could ask her questions, Professor Snape spoke. “Now, I suggest you get some rest. You have thirty-three bones to regrow.” He stood up and was gone in a swoosh of black robes. 

*HP* 

He huffed in frustration and took a swig of firewhisky. Someone was trying to kill the girl, _again_. At least last year he knew who it was and could keep watch over Quirrell, but this year, he hadn’t the foggiest. It was unlucky that Pucey had destroyed the Bludger--if they had managed to confine it, he might have been able to determine what kind of magic was affecting it. Despite what he had told the girl, Lucius was his primary suspect. He didn’t know how he could have done it--he had came through the floo to his quarters and had spent the entire morning with him--but he was the only suspect he had. Inspecting the Bludger might have yielded some answers, as it might have had traces of the caster’s magic. He didn’t blame Pucey for destroying it, however--he had protected the girl from further injury, unlike that Lockhart buffoon. 

Then there was that conversation with her--he was trying to get her to spill her secrets, and he ended up telling her his instead. Petunia had already revealed some of it, and telling her a little of the truth was better than her speculating on her aunt’s words alone. 

He didn’t understand himself. What he had sworn to never tell her, he had, and it was just her second year. Oh, if she guessed the truth of it, suspected the depth of his love for Lily...he would never recover. He didn’t want anyone to know. He loved Lily and always would, but he knew it was pathetic for a man of thirty-two to cling to unrequited love for a childhood friend who had rejected him, hated him by the end of it. He had always been pathetic, and he didn’t see that changing. Lily and Albus were the only people in his life to show him so much as a scrap of affection. 

And here he was, protecting Lily’s daughter from a murderer once again, all because he had been foolish enough to talk to a pretty, well-off girl from the other end of town. If she had continued to think the word witch an insult, followed her sister’s lead, he would have been free to live his life of hate. But he couldn’t regret leaving Spinner’s End. His life, even though it was a mess now, would have been infinitely worse if he had never ventured beyond his parents’s hovel. He couldn’t regret Lily, either. He could never regret Lily. He loved her. 

He drank and drank, downing one bottle of firewhisky, then two. When he was thoroughly drunk, he decided it was time to go see Albus. 

He stepped through the floo to the headmaster’s office, the world spinning and swaying around him. He was surprised to find Minerva standing at his desk in a tartan dressing gown. 

She turned around, stray hairs falling from her bun. “Severus! It is usually customary to announce yourself before coming through someone else’s floo.” 

“I hope I didn’t interrupt your shagging session,” he sneered. 

“Are you drunk, Severus?” she said. 

“Quite.” 

Dumbledore chuckled. “Perhaps you had best return to your rooms for the time being, my boy. I’ll be along to speak with you in a minute. There has been another attack. Young Mister Creevey was found Petrified by the stairs to the hospital wing.” 

“Another attack? I can see why the Heir chose Creevey--he was bloody annoying with that camera.” 

“Severus!” Minerva snapped. “He’s just a boy, excited to find himself in a magical world. I suggest you go back to your quarters and take a Sober-Up Potion if you want to continue this conversation.” 

“That’d ruin all my hard work getting pissed,” he said. “I’m not some errant first year you can just send away with a word, Minerva. I need to talk to Albus about his infuriating ward.” 

“I was under the impression young Dudley was settling in quite well with Charity,” Albus said. 

“Being obtuse does not suit you. I’m not talking about Dursley, as you very well know. It’s the girl. She’s a menace.” 

“Now, Severus,” Minerva said tartly. “I think you’re being unfair. She’s certainly not as mild as she was last year, but I often find that young girls start to come out of their shell around her age. She’s not at all a menace--a few misdemeanors does not a troublemaker make. And that Bludger today was hardly her fault.” 

“She’s impossible! That incident at breakfast--” 

“--she had no hand in it. I know that James was fond of that spell, but Misters Weasleys were the ones responsible for casting it on Mister Malfoy. If you had bothered to ask one of the witnesses before dragging the poor girl off, you would have known that, in addition to what Mister Malfoy said to provoke them.” 

“That girl is up to something, I am sure of it!” 

Minerva looked at him, something akin to pity in her eyes. “The girl is not James, Severus. I’m terribly sorry that your school years were so filled with troubles, but you are a thirty-two year old man. You need to act like it. The girl is not trying to make your life miserable. She is simply muddling her way through life as so many adolescents do.” 

Severus glared at her. 

“I should have known you’d be a miserable drunk,” she said. 

“Now, Minerva,” Albus chided. “Perhaps we should hear Severus’s concerns. He is her head of house.” 

“As he sees fit to remind me every Quidditch match.” 

Feeling triumphant at finally being heard, he said, “The girl has not been herself this year. She seems...fearful. Afraid of something, but she will not tell me what, nor can I intimidate her into telling me. And when I looked in her mind, all I heard was _hisses_.” 

Albus sat up straighter in his chair, but a look of fury crossed Minerva’s face. Her lips thinned, pressed into a tight line. Severus could not recall her being so angry at him since his school years. The rational part of his mind recoiled, but his drunken self rejoiced. 

“You looked into her _mind_ , Severus? After last year? Are you mad? It’s a wonder the girl trusts you at all, that’s a terrible violation of her person! You can’t just enter people’s mind on a whim, Mister Snape--” 

“Minerva,” Albus said. “Severus is no longer a schoolboy for us to set right. I am sure he is aware of the consequences of his actions.” 

She straightened her dressing gown, looking flustered. “Quite right.” 

“Now, let us forget how he obtained this information and focus on what it means.” 

“It sounded like Parseltongue to me,” he said. 

“Yes,” Albus said. “That is distinctly possible. Before you came through the floo, we were discussing the attacks. This is merely another piece of the puzzle. Now tell me, was it a memory, or the present moment you witnessed in the girl’s mind?” 

“The present moment, just before the attack on Halloween” he said, following Albus’s train of thought. “You mean to tell me the girl was hearing a snake, right then? That means, Filch’s cat--” 

“I believe that a basilisk resides somewhere in the school. Where, I do not know.” 

“You mean to tell me a great snake, the king of serpents, is moving through the corridors undetected?” 

“I suspect it is using the plumbing.” 

“The plumbing?” he said incredulously. 

“Yes,” Minerva said. “Albus and I have discussed what could have Petrified Mrs. Norris. Only powerful dark magic or a basilisk.” 

Severus considered this for a moment. They weren’t wrong. He could name a handful of spells that could Petrify a cat--several wore off within hours, others turned the victim to stone in a torturously slow process. Very few painlessly and indefinitely Petrified the victim. The few curses he knew that would do so were not latinate spells, and were therefore generally unknown to all but the most ardent students of Dark Arts in the UK. 

“A basilisk would certainly explain the Petrification,” he admitted. “There was water where that bloody cat was found--it is entirely possible she merely saw a reflection of the basilisk’s eyes. And I’m assuming Creevey was found with his camera?” 

Albus nodded. “He was found holding his camera to his eyes.” 

“Then a basilisk makes sense. But the writing on the wall spoke of an heir, as if a person was responsible for the attack.” 

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, eyes shining. “The Heir of Slytherin. It was before your time, Severus, but we had a string of similar attacks in 1943, culminating in the death of Myrtle Warren. There were several Petrifications. We believed a basilisk was responsible then as well.” 

“A basilisk would require the skills of a Parselmouth to command,” he said. “And the only known Parselmouth in the last century was the Dark Lord.” 

“I can name a few besides Tom. Even now, there is a young girl, yet to enter Hogwarts, who comes from a line known for having the gift, poor and mad though they were. But I agree with your assessment--of the Parselmouths that I know of, Tom Riddle is the most likely culprit. Especially given the last attacks occurred when he was a student, and considering what he went on to be,” Albus said. 

“And last year’s events prove that the school is not as protected from him as we had previously believed,” Severus said. “Do you have any suspects as to who he is acting through?” 

Albus peered at him over his spectacles. “Yes,” he said. “I fear he may be acting through Hazel.”


End file.
